#and he has little trinkets from every life series (even though its not at all obvious what i did and i might change it)

[phoenixtherobot]

Okay, I had a little fun drawing these, hope you don't mind!

I head canon that Jimmy has the dead anime mom hair of death

It’s why he always dies first

klafjdkslafdsajlk that is so hilarious

I adore men with long hair so I am fully on board with this.

[tubbypeddle]

hihi, could i get a matchup for percy jackson? thank you!

despite my age, i’m rather short at 5’1, with tanned skin and dark hair. my hair is also cut short at just above my shoulders. i present as female, and often use makeup such as eyeliner.

my fashion preferences skew toward the goth side— black, skirts, gloves, the like. metallic accessories are a major piece in my outfits, and i enjoy giving fashion advice when my friends ask for it.

my label on my sexuality is…weird. i don’t particularly mind my partner’s gender, but i find that I only feel attraction toward people who like me first, if that makes sense. i don’t know if there’s a specific label, but i do find it odd.

now, personality…it’s all over the place, matching whoever i am with. when i’m alone and with people i don’t know, i essentially don’t speak, just watching others awkwardly before i’m invited to the conversation. a lot of people have called me ‘weird’ in the past, but i don’t mind it anymore. anything can steal my attention away, and i find myself watching the most mundane things. even an ant on the wall can distract me from my work.

work, work…ugh. i view myself as a somewhat lazy person if I’m uninterested in the task, though it may just be my ADHD. while i do take advanced classes in my schooling, anything that doesn’t immediately pique my interest is a hard no.

one of my hobbies is collecting, with cards being my main focus. pretty rocks and crystals are also enjoyed, though they’re mainly to be admired and put on a shelf. other things I’ve picked up are extremely old coins, pretty stained glass, and shells. i get extremely excited upon receiving any, to a near unreasonable extent. this maybe be a problem with my disorganization…

fears…another stupid thing. i can take collapsing in the middle of summer and walking the halls late at night, but any criticism from my parents has me shutting down and on the verge of tears. they aren’t even particularly mean, but i’m particularly sensitive to their words. my second, more mild fear are insects— spiders. i’ve been trying to use ‘exposure therapy’ on myself by getting close to them and poking the web, but it doesn’t feel like a good decision.

with how successful i can be in academics, it’s laughable how unathletic i am. i do run and get an average amount of exercise, but any heavy lifting has me struggling. those close to me in life have previously expressed concern over me being slightly underweight, but it doesn’t bother me too much. i can get up on my two feet and any pity towards me is absolute infuriating. guns seem to be more fun as a weapon, anyway.

I have a hard time expressing my affections outside of quality time and just…talking. gift-giving is also easier for me, just wrapping up a nice little crystal or other trinket to give feels nice, and easier than putting my emotions into words. in private, i can get all over a significant other— hugging, cuddling, any physical contact can help me express my feelings.

Hello!! Another PJO matchup request!!

(You’re an Athena kid, aren’t you? /lh)

I love these, they’re so cute and instill me with so much nostalgia. Mostly because i read the books rather than watched the series. (I started it, but its really hard for me to retain attention LOL)

Anywho! Let’s get into this!

You’ve been a camper at Camp Half-Blood for years, and still, it was difficult for you to feel comfortable around anybody. Even the people who were supposed to be your brothers and sisters.

Not until it was one day when three newbies arrived to camp.

He talks enough for the both of you.

Leo Valdez

As soon as he meets you, he claims it’s love at first sight. (Though, he’s a little girl crazy, he claims every girl who looks at him first is love at first sight)

He thinks you’re so pretty, and so sweet and quiet. (At first). He attaches himself to you immediately. With Drew attaching herself to Jason, and Annabeth to Piper, he feels a little left out. Even though Will was assigned to be his little tour guide, he asked that you accompany them.

After that, he kind of just hangs around you a lot.

At least, as much as he can before his quest with Jason and Piper.

After that quest is over, he clings to you like a lost puppy. He claims it’s because Piper and Jason’s lovey doveyness was sickening. That he needed to have someone like that, too.

Before either of you really get together, he’s got that dorky kind of crush on you.

You know, the one. The cute one.

He learns all of your favorite things, and learns them so he can do them with you. He really wants to show off, but he’s maybe not so good at it.

He collects little rocks and trinkets for you. He’ll find whatever cards you’re into and gift them to you, “free of charge” he says. He really just like seeing you light up like the sun every time he finds one you don’t have yet. (It’s really hard, but he’s trying.)

He’s surprised to find that the two of you are a lot more similar than he expected. The ADHD, and the RSD, and the talking a mile a minute. As soon as you trust him enough to start yapping, it’s all the two of you ever do. There’s rarely a moment where the two of you are alone.

Your feelings for him feel like they come out of nowhere. Perhaps it was when he gifted you his first card. Or maybe when he broke cabin rules to sit by you during meal times. Or, perhaps, it was when he came back from his quest to save Hera, and he was immediately looking for you. He ignored the on-field medics, he ignored Piper and Jason asking him where he was going.

He was immediately going to your cabin to give you a big hug.

If you ask him to be your boyfriend (because you might have to, he’s terrified of rejection, but he’s made it wildly clear that he’s madly in love with you) I promise he’s the most fun, and the dorkiest boyfriend you’ll ever have.

He’s attentive without meaning to be. He notices things you like, and even enjoys learning abut them just so he’ll have more of an excuse to talk to you. (As I’ve already said, but sh)

He even makes little things for you to collect, it’s become a tradition between the two of you. He makes small little things for you to admire and put on your shelves. Or even little things that might make your life easier. A card finder or something. A spider killer. I dunno. He just likes making you things, and likes seeing you using them or even displaying them next to your bunk in your cabin.

He loves the presents you give him, too! Trust that he keeps them in his infinite tool belt at all times. He loves having your gifts on him at all times.

One of your date nights (sneaking out of your cabins at night and meeting at the mess hall) was just making each other charm bracelets. He wears it always. If it keeps getting caught on things as he’s tinkering, he wears it on a chain around his neck that he keeps tucked into his shirt and out of the way.

He also loves holding you, and adores that you can do the same with him. He’s all for hugs and cuddles. He loves it, he just loves it.

Holding your hand while going around camp, sneaking kisses during Campfire. He adores sitting behind you at Campfire so he can just drape himself over you.

A touchy little feller, he is.

ALSO ALSO

He absolutely adores your fashion. He likes anything you wear, but he’s a big fan of the all black fits you got going on. He’s a big fan of the goth—ness. About you. He likes you a lot, so he likes whatever you’re wearing a lot. Even if the Camp uniform is a hideous orange tee. (He thinks you can pull it off)

Honorary mentions!

Jason Grace

(Obviously, this takes place in a world where he and Piper weren’t together, because I’m assuming you’re not a homewrecker). He lights you up in a different way. He’s softer with you, spoils you in any way you want. Perhaps your personality would change with him, even though I could see you with Leo better than Jason.

Wooo this one came out quicker than I thought it would. ANYWAY. Have fun with this!!!!!

[apteryxparvus]

hello! i got your blog recommended to me through your follower event post, and first of all, i just wanna say congrats, 100 followers is awesome!! 🎉🎉 second, i had a quick read of your writing and i would love to participate in your event! i was thinking armin (shocker!!!) from aot and fluff, maybe something domestic, like armin making you breakfast in bed? 🤭 i hope that’s okay, congrats again on your milestone<3

p.s. your blog and the graphic on your event post are sooo cute🥺🫶

Hi!! Thanks for the request and for the compliments! Btw, I adore your whole blog aesthetic 🥰

Part of my ✨ 100 followers milestone event ✨ that ran from September 2nd to September 9th.

Pairing — Armin Arlert / Reader

Word count — 1,058 words

Content warning — none

Armin has always been the more pragmatic and analytical half of your relationship — diligently managing the household finances, ensuring bills were paid on time, and being the go-to person when anything in your little apartment decides to break down. Whether he possesses the DIY knowledge on how to fix it, or has a trusty contact who does (usually a close friend or a friend of a friend), he always ensures the issue is resolved as swiftly as possible.

On the other hand, you revel in maintaining the home’s tidiness, even amidst the chaos of Armin’s extensive book collection strewn haphazardly around. With your knack for decorating and your keen eye for the arts — along with the assortment of second-hand bought trinkets and cherished gifts from close friends — you’ve personalized the space to perfectly reflect the both of you. Now, it feels imbued with life and warmth — your little sanctuary of love and laughter.

One piece of furniture stands out amongst the rest — an old, well-loved but worn-out couch, adorned with scrapes and a few lingering stains from late nights drinking. While it may have seen better days, it holds a special place in your hearts. A gift from Mikasa and Eren — a symbol to commemorate a most significant milestone in your relationship with Armin: finally moving in together, after years of dating. Countless evenings you’ve spent together on that couch, the two of you, snuggled close, engrossed in movies and documentaries, with popcorn and other snacks scattered around.

Unfortunately, those evenings have become a distant memory. While Armin has the luxury of working from home occasionally, your day begins and ends with a grueling commute. Endless hours stuck in traffic, surrounded by other impatient commuters honking their horns and blasting music. Your nightly routines of cozying up with books and series have faded away, and Armin is always quick to notice the melancholy in your eyes, and the exhaustion that coats your whole being when you return home from work.

He yearns to bring back the sense of relaxation in your life.

So, one cloudy Saturday morning — with the skies overcast and the gentle city breeze singing its soft melody — he decides to dedicate the day entirely to you.

He stirs from his slumber, stretching his limbs, ensuring his movements are as quiet as possible. Padding softly to the kitchen, he contemplates his first step: breakfast — he’s been eagerly awaiting the opportunity to prepare your favorites ever since his latest grocery run, where he gathered all the necessary ingredients.

He brews himself a fragrant cup of coffee, the bitter aroma filling the air. His hands move gracefully as he gathers the ingredients, double-checking the recipes saved on his phone. Even though he has watched you create these dishes countless of times — and he considers them simple and easy to recreate — he’s determined to prepare a masterpiece.

Contrary to his belief and his initial confidence, preparing the breakfast platter ends up a challenging endeavor. When he finally completes the breakfast, a fine dusting of flour coats every inch of the tiny kitchen; rogue bits of batter cling stubbornly to his tousled hair. There’s a wet spot on the floor, where an unfortunate egg had met its fate.

Despite his fierce battle with the stubborn kitchen appliances and the endless amount of recipes (complete with their frustratingly long blog stories), Armin couldn’t help but let out a proud smile at his accomplishment. A grand platter, filled with numerous delicious and aromatic treats lay in front of him. Of course, a steaming cup of coffee sat next to it, brewed from your favorite coffee beans — the ones you’ve reserved only for special occasions.

Armin looks at the clock, noting the time is drawing near to when you usually stir from your slumber on your days off. He carefully collects the platter, and proceeds towards your shared bedroom.

He eases the door ajar, casting a cautious glance inside.You’re already awake, perched on the bed, tousled and tangled hair framing your face. Fatigue clings to your eyes, yet a delicate smile graces your lips as you idly scroll your phone.

“Good morning, love,” Armin murmurs tenderly, opening the door further. “I’ve prepared a little something for you.” He steps inside the room, heart swelling as he notices your gaze widen in astonishment.

“Armin…” you start, words faltering. “You—you shouldn't have…” You spring up from the bed, nearly stumbling over your own slippers, as you eagerly reach for him. Cupping his cheeks within your tender hands, you lock your gaze with his, heart racing with affection. You find yourself lost in the endless cerulean of his eyes; and you can’t help but notice the tiny specks of lighter blue scattered within. A shy but sweet smile tugs at his lips, and a gentle flush colors his cheeks as you press your lips softly against his.

“Oh, no!” you mumble, drawing back in mild horror. Armin looks puzzled by your sudden reaction, as you stammer our apologies. “Morning breath, sorry… Just… give me a moment,” you add, rushing off to the bathroom to quickly freshen up by brushing your teeth and washing your face.

When you return back to the bedroom — now looking significantly more refreshed and awake — Armin has already set the platter on the bed. The coffee, still burning hot, emits gentle tendrils of steam.

You settle gracefully onto the bed, crossing your legs. “Are you joining me?” you ask, patting the spot next to you with a warm smile. Armin ponders for a moment, before he settles next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“You made my favorite,” you murmur, gaze fixed on the colorful and appetizing platter of food before you. “Thank you,” you add quietly, planting another tender kiss on his lips. You nestle your cheek against his, seeking out the comfort of his warm presence.

Together, the two of you savor the quiet intimacy of the breakfast, enjoying the different flavors of the dishes he had prepared. To many, the moment might seem small and insignificant, but to you, it means everything — the chance to spend such intimate and domestic moments with the person you cherish the most in your life, the one person you love more than anyone else in the world.

Author's note: i made a notion table with all my wips and uhh... i have like 15 of them 🤡

[jargonautical]

Domesday

MANOR HILL HOTEL and Day Spa sits up past Alfriscombe’s headland, a decorative shell formed gradually over the centuries around the core of the original medieval manor house. For centuries this was the family home of the Vernons, able to trace their noble line back to the Norman conquest and beyond, but a combination of expensive tastes, a series of disastrous investments and a few unlucky runs at cards forced them to sell up and retreat long ago.

It still has the air of a grand house, if you can overlook the Michelin star plaques screwed to the stonework beside the main entrance and the ‘[NO] Vacancies’ sign creaking on its gibbet down by the main road. The sweeping carriage drive still follows the curve of the manor’s boundary wall, taking new arrivals past well-kept gardens and grand views over the bay before dropping them at the front door. The frontage is all late Regency, clean and white in the spring sunshine with row upon row of identically sized sash windows, while newer extensions at the rear house guest bedrooms overlooking the back lawn, neatly clipped evergreens, and beyond that ancient woodland with the crown of Fairy Hill rising up out of the trees in the distance. In short, picturesque as all hell from every possible angle. Little wonder the first Baron Vernon chose this spot to cement his triumphant land grab post-Conquest.

The grand ballroom jutting off the south-east side is a Victorian addition from the family that owned it briefly until their only son was lost in the Great War. One of the bedrooms is still preserved as a shrine to his memory, the life’s work of his grieving parents, even his uniform laid out as if ready for him to return and don it before he heads off to victory. Mainder struggles to remember that family’s name, to his occasional shame. Not Vernon, certainly, and he had nothing to do with their misfortunes, but still. Maybe he’ll drop by the display later and remind himself. It feels like the right thing to do.

The only visible remnant of the medieval hall in these modern times is a wide Gothic arch just inside the front door. The old lord’s motto just manages to assert its presence if not its meaning, shallow scratches in the fragile sandstone barely legible now; HABEMVS TENEMVS, it used to say. A brief smirk ghosts across his face as he passes under the inscription and wipes his muddy feet thoroughly on the logo woven into the doormat. Initially dismayed when the hotel decided to adopt the Vernon coat of arms as part of their branding, between the threat of lawsuits and the enthusiasm of the fancy graphic designer they hired it ended up almost unrecognisable, with details like the lion passant the Vernons were once so peacock-proud of replaced by nothing more than a stylised scribble beneath the shield. The absolute cherry on the cake is knowing that it appears not just on doormats, not just printed on restaurant menus and crockery and the tiny guest soaps in the rooms, it’s even embossed on the luxury quilted toilet paper. Odds are that someone at that very moment is wiping their arse on the Vernon crest, and he couldn’t have devised a more fitting use for it if he’d tried.

This early in the year it’s sparse business, with the Valentine’s Day offers over and done with and the Spring Bank Holiday trade yet to materialise, but those guests who do make the trip tend to be heavily susceptible to impulse buys from the trinkets displayed at the treatment centre desk. He stops to admire, as he always does, the sheer artistry at work in arranging the showcase, each shelf in the display containing precisely the correct number of tempting items, not too crowded and not too sparse, all angled to sparkle just so under the cabinet lights.

Looking more closely though there are a few gaps. “You managed to shift that geode.”, he remarks, reaching into his coat pocket and flipping open his notebook. “Want me to send up another? Anything else you’re out of?”.

He’s left hanging when the young woman at the desk holds up a ‘wait’ finger and darts into the tiny office behind the desk. “All of the rose quartz.”, her voice echoes back to him. “Most of the pendants …”. She reappears with a handwritten list which she pushes across the desk for him to review. “Pretty much all of the fossils. Here you go. We had a big rush on over Valentine’s Day.”.

He raises his eyebrows, scribbling swift notes as he works his way down the extensive list. “No kidding. Who says romance is dead?”.

“Certainly not me!”.

The cheeky smile she shoots at him doesn’t go unnoticed, but he lets her flirting pass without comment. Gratifying as it was when he overheard that the young ladies at the spa reception desk ‘totally would’ even if he is ‘like, really old’, the days are long gone that he’d consider taking them up on it.

Back before the Closing his two chief duties were monitoring the Fold for strays and wanderers, and keeping track of the yasim, the half-bloods seeded year on year by the constant traffic between the two sides. He’d barely had to stir himself on that front in the last two centuries. Maybe there are more green eyes in Alfriscombe than you’d expect in such a small population, a bit more luck on the scratch cards or the horses. Realm blood leaves its mark. But these days there isn’t one that he could pick out of a crowd, the aura about them that says they’re someone he needs to watch over. Certainly there are none of his get. He hasn’t even had a relationship on this side for how long he can’t even remember for precisely that reason, and he’s not about to start now.

Business concluded, he ducks down the corridor in the direction of the events suite. Hotel management chose to decorate this section with a selection of tasteful prints in unfussy dark wood frames showing scenes from the history of Alfriscombe. He stops to admire what’s in his opinion the best of the lot, delicate ink lines and cross-hatching showing a view of the town from, if he remembers correctly, 1857. Yes, that’d be right; the pier hadn’t been built yet, and the old Abbey schoolhouse, one of the only victims of the fire of 1860, is still standing. Memory supplies the scene - the blaze and its aftermath, nobody hurt but the building itself reduced to smoking rubble - handwringing from the diocese and mutterings from the vicar about God’s mysterious ways. In truth God had very little to do with it, but he’s confident She would have approved of the outcome, if not the methods. No more kids being singled out at the teachers’ whim, mysterious discipline delivered behind closed doors strictly one on one leaving boys pale and tearful and resolutely silent. Not in his town. He still counts that as one of his better days’ work.

A couple of steps onward he halts again, head cocked as if listening to an unseen navigator, and apparently on impulse takes a sharp right into Hotel Staff Only territory, a service corridor providing hidden access to the function rooms and the restaurant. As such it’s an unloved, undecorated space designed for actual work to get done, safely out of sight of paying guests. Plush carpet underfoot gives way to easy-to-mop vinyl in dull blue. Utilitarian plastic skirting protects the bare plaster walls from the heavy catering trolleys, inclined to rumble on unchecked if you let go even for a moment. One such appears as he reaches the bend, and he stops close into the wall to let it go rattling past. The tiny young woman struggling to steer the beast nods breathless thanks and carries on her way.

Further down there’s the murmur of voices from an event in progress. More of the staff are in full action mode here, smartly kicking open the kitchen doors to bustle past and around him with water jugs and trays of coffee cups, but they pay him no attention beyond the occasional nod of greeting. They all know him, local kids grown up playing hopscotch or bulldog in the alley behind his shop, and for all his many faults he never could bring himself to be a dick to children. It works out nicely; they have nothing but positive associations with him, and this wouldn’t be the first time he’s taken advantage of that fact to use their domain as a shortcut.

He emerges precisely where he needs to be, the atrium at the centre of the function rooms. They're busy laying it up for the first break, and he drifts aside to keep out of the way, helpfully picking up a discarded lanyard from the floor. A sign propped on the easel by the other door proclaims that today’s series of seminars are on the subject of ‘Alfriscombe: Past, Present and Future’, and are kindly sponsored by the Warrington Institute.

He barely glances at it. There’s news to be had here today, but that isn’t it.

[astaroth1357]

Demigod MC Series: Poseidon

Fishy fishy fishy… I honestly could write 100 more things for Poseidon MC and Levi. I just love the dynamic between an insecure, otaku shut-in and a chill California surfer dead set on becoming his friend.

Demigod MC Series: Intro, Aphrodite, Hermes, Hades, Dionysus, Demeter, Athena, Hades Pt. 2, Poseidon 

For anyone unaware, Poseidon is also the god of horses. I know it's a weird combo, but I didn't write the mythos.

Lucifer

…..

They came out of the portal….

On a horse….

They brought the mortal down to the Devildom…

On a goddamn horse….

There's a demigod on a live horse brandishing a weapon and doing laps around the Student Council Room…

Congratulations, he already wants to pull his hair out!!

Honestly, it would have been preferable to pluck them out of the sea. At least then they'd just need a towel! What the hell were they going to do with an entire horse!?

And his nightmare didn't stop there. Poseidon is a notoriously mercurial god, prone to bouts of anger and spitefulness for reasons far less grievous than kidnapping his children… 

Their apology was swift and (seemingly) effective, though the tide waters around the Devildom did rise by several feet for some time…

As for the MC… uh… Well, they're an energetic one to say the least…

Lucifer hasn't met a more active individual since Mammon. They horseback ride, swim, surf, skateboard, and probably do ten other things - the point is, they Hardly. Keep. Still! 

They're also annoyingly easygoing… He can't count the number of times they've told him to, "Just chill out," or, "Hang loose…" What does that even mean??

Between having to order a stable made for their horse and just trying to keep up with them, Lucifer already thinks this mortal has caused him more trouble than they're worth… At least they keep Mammon busy...

Mammon

Upon first meeting them atop their horse, Sunset, his first thought was of course:

"I wonder if I sell that...?"

After that, they nearly fed him to sharks for trying to take their beloved steed on same night. Safe to say, he never touched a hair on its head again…

These two had a rocky start, but their relationship mended fairly quickly. As it turns out, the MC is literally one of those "go with the flow" types. You can say it was water under the bridge soon enough.

Mammon actually thinks the MC is a hell of a lot of fun, even if they're super laid-back. Most of the time, they won’t take his drive for money (or fear of his bills) all that seriously and tell him that he’s worrying too much, but they’ll still lend a hand if its on their way.

He finds their ability to control water pretty cool as well. Levi has it to some extent, but the MC can make a whole-ass whirlpool or use water like a whip! 

He once begged them to call up some rare fish for him to sell, but they got all pseudo-philosophical on him about how ��trading life for material wealth” is “not cool, dude...”

He also made the mistake of challenging them to a splash fight only once…. They managed to drench the whole family with a single wave….

The only thing that bothers him is their weird insistence on being Levi's "Best Buddy…" Why would someone like them even bother with a shut in??

Is it the water? … Probably water. Levi, that lucky bastard…

Leviathan 

Thinks they're a big normie, no scratch that, a HUGE normie! The biggest normie he's ever met!! They skateboard and horseback ride for Devil's sake!!

...But they’re also, undoubtedly, the best friend he could've ever asked for.

To be fair to Levi, their friendship was sort of forced upon him. The MC took one look at him, his aquatic-themed room, and his pet goldfish then declared their new friendship status at that moment. 

Unfortunately for him, though, they're energetic, extroverted, and generally have little understanding of personal space… aka, an introvert's worst nightmare…

The next month could accurately be described as the MC doing everything in their power to make their stubborn "senpai" like them.

They would drag him out to the aquarium, beach, or pool; they befriended Henry so he could put in a good word for them; and they'd even bring him little gifts or trinkets they'd find on the ocean floor. Pretty shells and stuff like a cat bringing its master a dead mouse.

After he finally began to accept them as a persistent fixture in his life, he introduced them to gaming and anime and started accepting them little by little...

By the end of their stay, these two were practically inseparable. Not just because they like spending time together, but because they figured out they could have a telepathic link due to Levi being part sea serpent. 

No matter how far they are, they can always have a chat! (That no one else can hear so people think they’re just crazy...)

Satan

Satan honestly isn't the MC's biggest fan, he generally finds them too loud and gregarious for his liking. But their horse…?

He never really thought that he'd be a horse man... Yet it didn’t really take long for Satan to adore Sunset, their beautiful golden-maned mare. Apparently she's not their only horse, but by far their favorite traveling companion.

Sunset is a wonderful horse - brave, strong, and well-trained. It only took a few weeks before he was regularly sneaking out to the stables to brush her fur or feed her apples...

After the MC taught him how to ride, that was it. All other forms of transportation were inferior to him now.

Satan would ride Sunset everywhere and he looked damn good doing it! It takes all that fairytale Prince Charming thing he has going on and puts it through the roof.

It's a good thing too, because when I say everywhere, I do mean everywhere. Lucifer had to put seals on the House doors to keep Satan from riding Sunset through the hallways...

Of course, he’ll always let the MC have Sunset back when they need her!... with a little complaining but nothing terrible.

The MC doesn't mind much because Sunset likes him and they know he takes good care of her, but the rest of the House is slightly unnerved at how quickly he went horse crazy… What if they brought a giant crab instead?? No one wants to deal with crab-Satan...

Asmodeus 

Their body is just scrumptious. Oh, how he could look at their swimsuit-clad figure all day!! 😩

Between the swimming and the fighting, their form is toned to all hell and he can't get enough of it! Yes baby, yes!! Take those clothes off again!!! He'll help~! 😘

When he's not staring at them “totally respectfully,” then he's inviting them out to pool parties or begging them to take him riding...

There are parts of horseback riding he doesn’t like, the smell and the jostling specifically, but there is a kind of… romance to it, no?

He loves having the chance to snuggle up to the MC as they trot around the Devildom! It's so romantic, like they’re his knight in shining armor! (Or his demigod in a damp swimsuit, either works. 😏)

His Devilgram is just full of selfies of him and MC riding on the back of Sunset or sitting by the edge of the pool or them in the middle of a swim meet…

Yeah his Devilgram is now a one part him and one part MC-Appreciation account.

After the pact he'll eventually cool down some and stop staring at them like a sex-object, but even then he'll be at every swim meet. Don't you worry~

Beelzebub 

He actually really likes them! It's great to finally have another athlete in the House. 😊

The MC joined the RAD swim team just as soon the coach was able to convince Diavolo that having the child of a water god wasn't completely cheating... 

Since swim and fangol practice ends at about the same time, they walk home together a lot and complain about... sports things... (Forgive me, I don’t know sports. Uhm... Rival teams? Coaches? That one drill everyone hates? Stuff like that.)

Beel also can surf, skate, and snowboard so the two have a healthy competition going. They're about on equal footing so they tie often (except in surfing but Beel doesn't think that should count cause they’re probably cheating).

The only thing that he has to watch out for is Sunset… As in, he has to watch himself around Sunset because he absolutely could eat her on accident… 

Look, he doesn't want to and he doesn't even like horse meat that much, but even he has to admit there are times he gets hungry enough to consider it…

Of course, he knows that if he ever did Satan would rip him limb from limb then the MC would drown the rest so he really, really tries to control himself… but still… She’s a very healthy horse...

At least he didn’t try to sell her like Mammon. The MC hung him over a shark tank for that stunt… He’d feel bad, but Mammon kind of had it coming.

Belphegor 

The first time they met, the MC smelled like beach water and called him "dude-bro…" He didn't like his prospects.

For a while, he genuinely thought that they had a lump of sand where their brain was. They were just too chill!! Here he was saying that he's being held captive and they were like, "Well that sucks, man… I'll help ya, but I've got practice tomorrow. You can wait, right?"

It's not like he expected them to jump on top of it, but some urgency would have been nice…

When they eventually got around to helping him, he was actually looking forward to choking the life out of them for the extra wait. Unfortunately, they apparently had a horse…

Yeah, Belphie found out just a bit too late that the MC could summon their steed to them whenever they wanted and ended up with Sunset's hooves firmly bucking into his back for his trouble…

What followed was Belphegor running circles around the attic from the weapon-totting MC riding their terrifying murder horse until Lucifer finally intervened....

Thank the gods he wasn’t near any water….

As it would turn out later, as long as he's not being held captive in an attic Belphie kind of vibes with their laid-backness… They say they approach life "one wave at a time" or something.

He could care less about what that actually means, but what it translates to is "Stop stressing out and just keep chill" which he's all about.

Everybody should just chill out!... dude…. Nah, he'll let them stick to the “dude”-thing, it feels weird...

[liliesoftherain]

Alstroemeria

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader; Midiroiya Izuku x Reader -- one sided bakugou x reader(or is it???????)

Genre: Fluff, Slight Angst? Mentions of unrequited love so 

Summary: Alstroemeria: This flower has an array of meanings...but the beautiful blooms always connect to a similar meaning of friendship, love, strength, and devotion. Someone should have mentioned that it doesn’t have to mean all of the above.

A/N: Hi y’all, enjoy this quick one-shot as I finish my next chapter. This is loosely based on the Bridgerton series? Mainly just a Victorian ball au? I just want to imagine Bakugou in a cute waistcoat I’m sorry. Izuku i an Earl and holds title cause his dad is gone. Katsuki is a Marquess cause he’s the son of a duke, as he should.

Part 2--Bakugou’s POV

----------

You’ve had time to get used to the ache of heartbreak.

Skillfully hiding the pain you feel behind a taut smile, you turn away from where he was dancing and sweep your eyes along the extravagant ballroom before you. It really is a wonderous sight; the crystal chandeliers are polished and sparkling, the lavish satin drapes are pulled back by golden ropes and allow the guests to watch the dancefloor without interference, and the professional musicians upon the raised lift play beautifully to set a magical mood. 

You’re no stranger to these elaborate formalities, yet this is the first season you were truly allowed to partake in the events. The fourth ball of the season is just as important as the first, allowing the suitors to try and claim the affections of their wanted--more like, just claim stake in any favorable lady they could. 

However, you have been groomed your entire life for an event such as this, and you were hardly in any position to complain. Yet, that doesn’t mean you were completely uncaring to the idea of being arranged into a loveless marriage. You so painfully wanted your husband to be someone you felt something for--you wanted your love-match. Alas, you weren’t in the position to gain anything of the sort, were you? Not while his attention was on her. 

“These are such a bore, are they not?”

You are shaken from your thoughts, locking on emerald eyes that brimmed with amusement, and you can’t help but grin at the sight. 

“Why, My Lord, dare say are you not entertained by all the ribbons and ascots?”

“I would say not--I prefer a plethora of feathers and exuberant ruffled fronts. Much more fashionable items.”

You share a laugh, the tension melting away the longer you were in the presence of your childhood friend: Izuku Midoriya. The Earl is and has always been a very kind soul, one who you would once spend countless hours with playing in the gardens, and even more so hosting tea and forcing him to attend. As a child, he was always rather timid and shy, easy to persuade into just about anything. Perhaps that is why you and Katsuki always got away with your harmless teasing--well, some teasing more harmless than not. 

He was always nearby, conceding you to put him through the girliest of activities, and yet he never complained. He often returned the favor by forcing you to study, presenting you with books on subjects you couldn’t even begin to understand, and allowed him to rant on about every and anything he found of interest. He was often your escort to most events--with the proper chaperone, of course--and force you to listen off as he rattled endlessly over different theories he came up with from his travels abroad. 

Katsuki wasn’t as fond of listening to his rambles as you were, and often would shut him up with a fencing match or something similar--anything that could have Katsuki physically overpower him to get him to, ‘stop talking for more than two bloody minutes.’ 

Yes, you three were once as thick as thieves--however now...

Your attention flickered back over to the Marquess; his blond locks wild and untamed, even though he was at such a prestigious event, and the endearing sight squeezed your heart as it was so him. He now stood off to the side, chatting away with the miss that has held his attention all night. She was rather beautiful, with long juniper locks and stunning sage eyes; it is no wonder Katsuki would be so bewitched. 

“May I?”

You glance down, seeing Izuku’s expectant hand, and grant him the remainder of your dances on your card. You try to smile, but it falters at his knowing look as his attention goes between you and his other friend. 

He leads you to the dancefloor, holding you tight as you both being to waltz a varsouvienne. You allow the music and his soft gaze to consume you, laughing and jesting as the night went on. Katsuki ends up in the furthest parts of your mind, almost forgotten.

“Pardon--”

Almost.

“Miss (l/n), a dance?” Katsuki stands before you, a friendly sneer on his face as he stares at your dance partner. “A real dance, anyways. Seeing as the ever graceful Izuku may as well have two left feet.”

“Oh, most amusing, Katsuki.” Izuku rolls his eyes, yet stays holding onto you.

You miss the quick glance of Katsuki’s eyes as they sweep over Izuku’s grip on your waist--instead, you offer a silent thanks for his comfort before giving a polite bow of your head. 

“Of course, Lord Bakugou.”

You take his outstretched hand and allow him to guide you away; he spins you once, then brings you back into his embrace. 

“How are you this evening, (y/n)?”

“Very well, My Lord.”

“Now why are you acting with such formalities? Have I not won over your friendship after all these years?” His brow furrows as you turn your head downward. “Tell me, what is it that troubles you?”

“It is nothing, Katsuki.” the upturn of your lips does little to put him at ease, “I am merely feeling the effects of dancing--that is all.”

“Why? Izuku and you had only danced a measly three times--and you know you have to dance with me.”

You let out a snort of amusement, remembering the promise you made to both men before the season first started of saving them at least one dance.

“Yes, of course, I always make sure to save one for you, do I not?” 

“You do.” He chuckles, before smiling at your head. “May I say, your hair looks lovely tonight--alstroemerias again? It suits you.”

He spins you around once more, slower than the first, and you spot Miss Setsuna from across the way. Her frown is prominent as she watches the waltz continue, and in some twisted way, you feel triumphant; you know she’s after his status, and his good looks didn’t hurt either. That’s what every woman was chasing, after all. That’s what you were supposed to be chasing--but that’s not what you want. 

You’ve been in love with Katsuki since you were both children. You loved the little boy who would take you on adventures throughout the grounds behind your estates. You loved the kid who used to pick you alstroemerias for your tea-parties--it is now why they adorn your gardens and your wardrobe. You loved the young man who would--begrudgingly--let you practice various dances on him until you got it just right. You loved the teen who would bring you various trinkets from his studies and travels, just because. You loved the man who never failed to make you feel worthy and respected in the highest regard of the meaning. 

You loved all of him. 

“Yes--they are my favorite flower, after all.”

The dance ends, and you both dip low in respect, and for a fleeting moment, you expect him to stay.

But that hope shatters the second he loses focus on you and gives it to her. You muster the strength to look away. 

“Thank you for the dance, My Lord. I hope you enjoy the rest of your night.” 

Without waiting on a response, you turn and swiftly make your leave. All you want to do is find your mother and go home, your heart unable to deal with any more pain. On your hasty exit, you end up crashing into someone.

“I, I am sorry,” you gasp, hoping that they said nothing in return so you could continue and get some fresh air.

Why was it so suffocating in here?

“(y/n)? Are you alright?”

Izuku places a firm grip upon your arms, holding you steady as your chest begins to rise and fall in quick breathes. He takes your form in worriedly and quickly moves to escort you to the balcony, where there is no crowd and fresh air. 

Leaning against the railing, you focus on the lush gardens below--on anything to get your mind of Katsuki. Yet it all is in vain, as the pin in your hair comes loose, and an alstroemeria falls right onto the back of your hand. 

Your bottom lip grows unsteady the longer you watch the flower, and you have to blink back the moisture that has begun to collect on your bottom lashes. You don’t understand why it all hurt so much--you’ve known from the start that receiving his affections was slim to none, yet you still held onto the dim idea that he could also return affections. 

You had been watering this seed--this notion--every day, and it only grew stronger and stronger; its stem growing as if it were a vine, seizing every part of your being until you were helpless to the damage it had caused. You are tired--your body, your heart, it all hurts and you want to give up, but you keep pushing for this flower to bloom because something good has to come of all of this hurt, right?

And something does, but what you thought was a beautiful flower of love, strength, and devotion, he only saw one of strength in friendship. 

He may not realize, but it’s killing you that you two are seeing two different sides of the same coin; the opposite sides of the looking glass, unable to get to the other, only able to present a false front instead of the entire truth of feelings as a whole. 

You don’t even realize the tears have started to fall from your face until you notice you were no longer staring down to the darkness below, and had begun to soak the coat of your companion. You pull away, just enough to look into his eyes, and you see the concern and care he holds for you. Leaning back into his embrace, you don’t give yourself another moment to think how scandalous it must look to be held so fondly by a man you weren’t wed to--you need this hug more than anything right now, and that’s enough reason for the both of you. 

Izuku mumbles soothing words of endearment, stroking your clothed back softly--and while you can’t feel his bare skin against yours, you still shiver at the touch. He’s warm, comforting, and you find yourself calming down in his hold. You pull back, creating enough distance to be acceptable, and grant him a watery smile. 

He stares back kindly, a gaze of adoration, as he pulls another of your beloved alstroemeria from the clip behind your ear. 

“What are you--”

Izuku sets it on the balcony ledge, then unclips the flower from his breast pocket, delicately placing it in the same spot.

“A primrose--I think it suits you quite well.” 

You bring a hand up, briefly brushing over the soft petals before searching his expression for an answer. His smile only grows fonder, and he takes your hand away from the primrose and raises it to his mouth for a tender kiss on your hand. 

“Izuku…”

“If the Lady is willing to accept, may I be so bold as to call upon her tomorrow?”

One hand starts to fiddle with the fabric against your waist, suddenly feeling rather nervous as he continues to hold you other as he awaits your response. Your tongue darts out to lick your suddenly dry lips, a bashful smile forming right after.

“Of course, My Lord.”

“Fantastic,” he whispers, letting your hand fall back to your side as he stares with disbelief at your agreeance--you laugh at his wide-eyed look, “Then let me escort you inside, I do not wish to keep you any longer than you would like.”

You consent, taking his arm as he walks you back into the ballroom. For the first time that night--for the first time ever in fact--your mind is far from the Marquess, and you’re not concerned about it. 

So much so, you don’t notice the distraught-looking man leaving the balcony right before you both, nor the falling alstroemeria right after.

-----

Primrose: These flowers are seen as representations of young love and of feeling as though you can’t live without your lover. 

“...is the most overlooked flower when it comes to romantic flowers...”

[silverarmedassassin]

Home For the Holidays (1)

Bucky x Reader | Words: 8,608 | Warnings: None 

A/N: Happy holidays and happy December 16! This is my holiday submission for @wonderlandmind4 Fall/Winter challenge. My prompt was: B is very enthusiastic to introduce A to all their traditions, but tries to be sensitive when A seems like they’re struggling to fit in/enjoy themselves. 

I’ve been working on this guy for so long, so I decided to split this up into two parts. Part two will be posted this weekend! I’m so happy to finally be sharing this bad boy with you all! If you feel so inclined, I would love to hear what you think. Happy reading!🎄

From the time he was a young boy, Bucky has had an aversion towards the elderly. Which is ironic considering since, technically speaking, he is the elderly now. It’s not that he doesn’t like old people; it’s just that they make him uncomfortable. Which is why, on a balmy Sunday in October, when he walks into the Brooklyn Manor nursing home, he feels his skin crawl.

This trip has been a long time coming. Two years on the run, a voluntary deep freeze, a universal war, and the obliteration of half the earth’s population and its subsequent return, to be exact. But no amount of time would ever prepare Bucky for the visit he was about to make. But it was “essential to his healing,” as Sam so often liked to say. This, along with therapy and the establishment of a place of his own outside of the Tower, was meant to help him move past what had happened to him, help him see that he was a victim and that people still loved him despite what he was forced to do for all of those years.

"Good morning," a cheery redhead says from her spot behind the front desk. "Can I he-" She cuts herself off when she looks up from the computer screen and sees who is looming over her.

"Er, hi," Bucky says, suddenly convinced this is a terrible idea. He should expect nothing less, considering his line of work, both current and past. "I was told Rebecca Proctor lives here..."

It took a second for the woman to register what Bucky had said, but then she jumps into action and begins to type into her computer. "Of course! Are you a relative?"

"Brother."

Her eyes go wide for a second before it clicks. "Oh my goodness, of course." The woman grabs a sticky note from the pad next to her keyboard and scribbles down a series of numbers before handing it to him. "Her room number is 117. This is the code to get into the residence portion of the building. If you need help finding the room, there should be a nurse's station in every hall."

Bucky offers a tight smile and nod of appreciation as he takes the slip of paper from the woman. As he makes his way deeper into the facility, he can feel his nerves waxing and waning with each step. He shouldn't be nervous. It was just Becca, just his little sister, one of the last living ties to his life before all of this. But it had been so long, who knew if she would even recognize him?

When Bucky recruited Sam to help him find out where, or even if, his sister was living, he figured it would be a fruitless quest. He was surprised, however, when Sam came to him a week later with the address of the building he was currently attempting to navigate, shyly dipping his head every time he would pass an older woman in a wheelchair or a group of men concentrating on a board game. Sam had managed to hunt her down with a little help from his Avenger title. The nurse couldn't give him much information since he wasn't a relative or listed on her medical files, but what she could share broke Bucky's heart.

At 102 years old, technically a little less since she was a Snap victim, Becca's memory was less than stellar. Her children had made the tough decision to place her in a home after her mind had started to slip, and she was no longer able to care for herself. It makes Bucky feel guilty because he wasn't around to help.

But today, hopefully, that would change.

After a little wandering and a helpful point from a nurse, Bucky finds himself standing in front of the oversized, thick oak door with a golden plaque in the center proudly displaying "117." He waits a moment, listens for any sign that someone is in the room, but all he hears are the general noises of a nursing home just after lunchtime. He raises his hand to knock but stops short of making contact. Should he knock? What if she’s sleeping? He wouldn't want to wake her. He decides to slowly press the door open instead.

He enters the room slowly, unsure of what he will be greeted with when he reaches the end of the short hall blocking his view from his sister's bed. What he sees, however, thoroughly surprises him. Instead of finding a small, frail body lying in a too-sterile hospital-grade bed, he finds his sister sitting in one of the two armchairs in front of her window, quietly looking out into the garden just outside. After a moment of shifting back and forth on his feet, Bucky clears his throat in an attempt to catch Becca's attention.

The woman slowly turns her head to eye the intruder, and, to Bucky's amazement, a slight look of recognition flashes across her face. Despite her age and sunken appearance, her bright blue eyes still shine as brilliant as they did when she was a little girl. He focuses on those eyes as he slowly crosses the room to her.

"Hey, Becca. Do you," Bucky grimaces as the falter in his voice caused by the tears that are starting to form in his own blue eyes. "Do you know who I am?"

To save his sister from having to crane her frail neck to look up at him, he settles himself into the chair across from hers. The smooth velvet is cool on his overheated skin, and he could sink into the feeling of comfort it gives him. Another piece of home, he thinks as a picture of his family's home flashes across his mind, the two chairs nestled in a similar position to how Becca has them now.

Rebecca studies her brother for a moment before a thin but bright smile spreads across her aged features, and Bucky lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. "You're from the pictures. Just over there."

Bucky watches as a boney finger points to the dresser, the top neatly cluttered with picture frames and trinkets, a sign that his sister had lived a full and happy life after he'd gone. He gets up and makes his way to the piece of furniture to better look at the mixture of black and white and colored photos scattered together. It's strange, he thinks, seeing his sister's life play out across the years in the span of just a few short seconds. When he lands on a black and white photo in an aged frame, he freezes. Smiling back at him are his parents, Bucky himself sitting in front of them on their home's front steps, and Becca nestled snugly in their mother's arms. From when they first brought her home, Bucky thinks to himself as he reaches out and caresses the delicate glass. He moves on to another older photo, this one depicting the two Barnes children dressed in their Sunday best with a scrawny Steve Rogers thrown into the mix. Bucky shakes his head at the sight of his best friend, remembering all the trouble he used to get the two of them in.

The last photo he sees, though, causes a lump to rise and settle in his throat. Frozen in time in the cracked and fading film is the last time he ever saw his family. Bucky, Rebecca, and their parents stand on the dock just in front of the boat he was to ship off on. Becca and his mother have a tight grip on him, and his father only offers a tight smile to the camera. Looking at the image of his younger self, not too different from what he looks like now, is a heart-wrenching moment. The man in that photo has yet to see death first-hand, feel the visceral need to kill or be killed. That man was still innocent, naive to the world, and convinced he was invincible.

Bucky remembers that day and how, despite the nerves, excited he was to see someplace other than dinghy Brooklyn. Yeah, that war wasn't one he signed up to fight, but he'd made a promise to himself he would do what he needed to keep his ma and sister safe.

As he reaches for the frame, a soft knock on the door startles him from his thoughts. "Mrs. Proctor!" a sweet voice sing-songs as the door is pushed open once again. "I hope you didn't fill up at lunch. I brought-Oh!"

Standing in the doorway, both hands full of reusable bags filled to the brim with goodies of all sorts, is a young woman. Her smile, one of the prettiest Bucky's ever seen, he thinks, falters just a little when she sees his towering form taking up so much space in Becca's room. However, she recovers quickly and nudges the door shut behind her as she makes her way deeper into the room.

"I didn't know you were expecting company this afternoon," the woman says and deposits the bags onto the bed. "Who is this?"

Bucky studies the woman in an attempt to figure out who she is to his sister. She couldn't be a daughter or granddaughter, right? She looked nothing like them. Plus, she was calling her Mrs. Proctor. Bucky also felt confident in his ruling that she was not a nurse or staff member at the facility, considering she wasn't wearing scrubs or donning a facility badge.

The only indication that she even belongs in this facility is the sticker she wears proudly just above her heart, with "Y/N" scrawled in bright red letters.

"The pictures," Becca finally says with a smile, pointing towards Bucky. "He's from the pictures."

Their visitor looks between Bucky and Rebecca with a soft look somewhere between pity and a faint sense of joy. "Bucky," the frail old woman says, and Bucky instantly feels the lump that had settled into his throat not ten minutes earlier begin to grow again.

Y/N must sense the energy shift in the room because she quickly pulls out a few homemade goodies wrapped in cellophane and places them on the rolling table next to Becca's bed. "Well, I'll let you be with your visitor, Mrs. Proctor," she says as she shoulders her bags again. "I'll see you Tuesday evening, okay?"

Becca simply nods as she watches the younger woman make her exit, then shifts her attention to Bucky as he steps back towards her and crouches down.

"Bec, you remember me?"

She says nothing at first but brings her hand up to rest on Bucky's freshly shaved cheeks, a fresh set of tears gathering in their twin blue eyes. "You came back."

Bucky sits with his sister for two hours after they reacquaint themselves. The nurse that spoke with Sam was right; it was difficult to be around her, as she often slipped up with her memory. She couldn't remember the names of her grandchildren, nor her great-grandchildren, but when she saw their smiling faces looking back at her in the pictures, she knew they belonged to her. Her fragile mind, however, seemed to favor older faces and memories. She could recall events from when she was a teenager and even got some details right from when Bucky shipped off. The remembrance came with a repeat of the same stories two or three times, but Bucky didn’t mind. He was never around to bear witness to some of these stories, and it was just good to hear his sister’s voice again.

It's around 3 o'clock when Rebecca begins to grow tired, and so Bucky takes that as his cue to take his leave. He helps his sister into her bed for a pre-dinner nap, then quietly makes his exit when he is sure she is fast asleep. For a visit he was hesitant to make, he can't think of a better way to have spent his Sunday afternoon.

As Bucky makes his way back through the winding halls of the facility, a jaunty tune he recalls from his teenage days plays through his head, and he feels like he could face the world if needed, which is why he finds himself doing the unimaginable as he reaches the redhead at the front desk.

“Excuse me,” he says with a renewed sense of confidence that had been absent earlier in the day. “I don’t know if you can give me this information, but there was this woman...Y/N I think her name is. I don’t think she was a nurse, but maybe someone else that works here? Would you be able to tell me if she was still around?”

The woman smiles gently back at him but shakes her head. “We’re such a large facility, I’d need to see a face to know exactly who you’re talking about.”

There’s a momentary lapse in his confidence, realizing just how weird the question could come off. He’s suddenly very glad she had no idea who he was talking about and hopes she doesn’t mention it to anyone else.

“Uh, thanks anyway,” he mutters as he gives a small nod. “Have a good rest of your day.”

Oh well, he thinks to himself, at least I could make it out my door this morning.

The Snap impacted each and every person differently. While most think the Vanished had it the worst, people tend to forget about those left behind. Many lost their jobs due to closures and shortages, others were evicted due to insufficient funds for rent. The uncertainty of it all, the not knowing what happened to family and friends, not knowing when you’d find your next job, if you’d have money to buy groceries this week, took a harder toll on some than others.

You had been a relatively fortunate one. Since moving to the city, you hadn’t quite made a large group of friends yet, which meant there were fewer people for you to lose. Your family had somehow lucked out as well. Due to an abundance of workers suddenly gone without a trace, you’d been able to snag a corporate position that you managed to hold onto even after the Snap was reversed.

However, the one downside was the aftermath of families coming back to their homes only to find that someone new was living in their space. That, unfortunately, happened to you. Two days after everyone reappeared, you had a knock on your front door. When you opened it, you found a lovely couple who had just been married before the Snap and had just started renting the apartment you were living in. And, even though you’d called this building your home for the past five years, you did what any half-decent individual would do and moved out. Goodbye state-of-the-art gym and central location, hello paper-thin walls, and a forty-five-minute one-way commute.

At least you were able to take a few days off of work to get your belongings out of the old apartment and into the new one. Most of the larger furniture had been the couple’s, which meant you only had to carry a few pieces into your second story Brooklyn brownstone apartment. The problem, however, was that there was no elevator in this renovated building, which meant you had to find a way to carry your low-quality Ikea TV stand up the too-narrow stairs without busting a wall or your furniture. The only thing you were close to bursting was a nerve because it was turning out to be more of a two-person task, and you were the only one participating in this moving process.

“Fuck you,” you groan as one of the stand’s legs gets caught on the stairs again. Despite the chilly breeze that was blowing in from the building’s front door you had propped open, you were perspiring more than would be deemed ladylike. With the rate you were going, you would need to need to take another full day off just to get your stupid furniture into your apartment.

“Do you need some help?” a voice calls from above you. You peek over your shoulder to find a rather tall, rather bulky man standing at the second-floor landing. It hadn’t even occurred to you that people might actually need to use the stairs to, you know, go about their daily lives. What doesn’t go over your head, however, is the fact that the man standing at the top of the stairs was not a complete stranger like you originally thought, but someone you knew almost too well for not actually knowing him at all.

“That would actually be wonderful,” you huff out a laugh, attempting to be nonchalant about the fact that Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier - soldier turned assassin turned Avenger - was standing just feet away from you for the second time in twenty-four hours, this time in your new apartment building. Maybe this place wasn’t as safe as you had thought?

He makes his way halfway down the stairs, and you attempt to shimmy out of the way so that he can grab the corners you had been holding up. “If you could just get this thing back down the stairs, I could-” Your meager offering of help is cut short when Bucky manages to slot his arms into place and life the entire piece like it was nothing. A metal arm will do that to someone, you suppose.

You awkwardly direct him to your apartment, shoving open the door to 2B and waving your arm to give him a vague idea of where you want the stand. “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver. I thought for sure I was going to have to take the thing apart to get it up here.”

“It’s no problem, really,” Bucky says as he stuffs his hands into his jacket’s pockets, the stiff leather shifting and rubbing as he does so. When he looks at you for the first time, his bright blue eyes light up even more with recognition. “Hey, you were visiting my sister’s place the other day.”

“I was,” you laugh as you extend your hand. “I’m Y/N.”

There’s a brief moment of hesitation before a warm, leathered hand slips into yours. “Bucky,” he says as if you wouldn’t already know who he is. "Do you, uh, need help bringing anything else up?"

You watch him as he slowly glances around your small apartment, void of much except for a few boxes and the stand he just carried up and your mattress you've yet to shimmy into the bedroom. “Oh! No,” you laugh, realizing how pathetic your new home looks at the moment. “I have movers bringing the rest of my things from storage tomorrow. But thank you, I really appreciate it.”

“It’s really no problem. If you, uh, ever need anything, I rent the unit above you. Not sure how often I’ll be home, but for whatever it’s worth,” he shrugs as you follow him back out your front door.

“I’ll keep it in mind. I guess I’ll be seeing you around?”

Despite his nod of agreement, you don’t see Bucky for another two weeks. You try not to let the unexplained but forewarned absence weigh on your thoughts. With the exception of listening for the creaks of his floorboards that never come and the brief visits with his sister, you find yourself doing everything you can to not fixate on the Grecian god of a man you have somehow come to call a neighbor.

It’s not until you receive a call from Rebecca’s daughter that you finally admit he was home.

“Oh, I’m...I’m so sorry…” you choke out when Mary informs you her mother had passed away in the early hours of the night. Despite having no real relation to the Proctor family, you’d known them for a handful of years due to your time spent at the nursing home. In that time, they’d come to be like family to you, so their loss affected you just as strongly as the passing of your own family member would. “Have you told her brother?”

“No. We have no way to contact him. I know he’d spent some time with Ma at the nursing home, so I left a message for them to pass the news and my number on if he came in or called. But I haven’t heard anything.”

“I actually have a way to reach him. I’ll tell him to give you a call, okay?”

When you get home the following day, you’re greeted by the sound of Bucky’s shower turning on. Five minutes later, it shuts off. You give him another ten before you make your way up to his apartment. The idea of telling this man, a practical stranger who you knew nothing about other than what you’ve read in books and seen on tv, that his sister passed away leaves you feeling nauseous. This isn't exactly what you pictured when you said you’d see him around.

He’s quick to answer his door. You’re taken off guard when his door is pulled open to reveal his broad chest covered in a blue Henley that is clinging to his still-damp skin. It takes you a moment to gather your thoughts and remember exactly why you were here.

“Is everything okay, Y/N?” he asks as you drag your eyes up to meet his own.

You clear your throat and shake your head in an attempt to gather your thoughts. “Uh, yeah. No? I’m sorry to bug you, but I, uh...You haven’t heard from Mrs. Pro-er, I mean Rebecca’s daughter, have you?” When he says no, you sigh. You knew that was the answer you were going to get, but a part of you still hoped you weren’t going to have to be the one to deliver this information. “Mary called me yesterday. She, uh...She wanted you to know...uh...Rebecca passed away...early yesterday morning…”

You can visibly see Bucky shift through several emotions - shock, grief, anger, to finally an almost expressionless mask. You unintentionally stiffen at the sound of metal shifting and grating together, which seems to break Bucky’s haze. You can tell he’s struggling to find words in that moment, so you continue on, hoping a coherent sentence will come out.

“I know I’m probably not the person you want to hear this news from, but I couldn’t really give her a way to contact you and...Here!” You shove your hand out towards him, the small piece of paper you wrote Mary’s number down on resting in your palm. “I told her I’d give you her number. So you could call her or whatever.”

Bucky just looks at the slip for a moment before you clear your throat. “Listen, I’m really sorry. I wi-”

“Thanks, Y/N,” he cuts you off and grabs for the paper. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go call her.”

Before you can respond, Bucky is turning his back. “Yeah, okay,” you whisper to the dark oak of his door before making your way back down to your own apartment.

“The service was beautiful, Mary,” you say as you hug Rebecca’s daughter. “She would have loved it.”

“It’s all thanks to Bucky. He paid for everything.” Mary says as she sets her gaze over your shoulder. “Or, I guess Uncle Bucky is more appropriate to say…”

You turn and follow her gaze to where the man in question is, his great-great nieces and nephew using him as their personal jungle gym. You can tell, even from across the room, that his face is absolutely glowing, eyes crinkled in the outer-corners with delight as Bridget, the youngest of the bunch, wraps her tiny arms around his neck and demands a horsey ride.

“I’m glad they’re taking it so well,” Mary says as she watches her grandchildren. “It’s almost like he’s been a part of their life this entire time instead of just appearing out of nowhere.” There’s no hostility in her voice when she says this. Rather, she sounds remorseful. “I went my entire life hearing stories about my uncle. My dead uncle. Yet, after all these years, he shows up looking exactly like he does in the pictures I’ve been looking at since I was a little girl.”

You felt for Mary and the rest of the family. You couldn’t begin to comprehend how difficult and confusing it must be to find out that the man you’d come to know as just a ghost story was alive and real and more than willing to be a part of even the most difficult moments in life. It’s a testament, you think, to how good of a man Bucky really is. Despite the horrors of his past and the apprehension he’s likely still faced with every day, he’s still willing to put himself out into a world that has been less than kind to him.

As if your thoughts summon him, Bucky looks up and over to where you are standing. When he catches your eye, his smile grows. You’re sure there has never been anything as beautiful as Bucky Barnes flashing a megawatt smile at you. “At least you’re in good hands.”

You decide not to stick around for the luncheon after the service so, after snagging a few refreshments and a quick chat with a few of the family members you recognize, you begin to inch your way closer to the exit. You hadn’t seen Bucky since you’d spoken with Mary, and you were in the middle of trying to figure out why that left you with a hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach when you’re abruptly stopped on your way to the doors.

“You can’t leave before I get the chance to apologize for the other day,” Bucky says, a small smile gracing his face. He cleans up well, you decide as you get a better look at his lightly stubbled face. He has his hair tied back in a neat, low bun, which allowed his eyes to stand out more than they usually did, and a black-on-black suit is stretched just right over his broad chest. If you didn’t know better, you would think he was a model on loan to add some cheer to the rather dreary day.

Bucky quirks his head and shifts his body weight when it takes you a bit too long to answer, and it’s only then that you realize you’re ogling him. His sister just died, Y/N, you chastise yourself, this is not the time to be checking him out.

“I, uh,” you clear your throat, hoping he can’t feel the heat that is rapidly clawing up your neck radiating from you. “I don’t want to intrude on family time,” you say rather lamely. It was true, but for whatever reason, Bucky left you feeling almost guilty.

He lets out a humorless laugh and crosses his arms. “If anyone is intruding, I think it’s me,” he says as he looks over your shoulder back into the banquet room the rest of the family is in.

You turn to follow his line of sight and can’t help but smile when you see one of his great-nieces twirling around, showing off her dress. “Nah, don’t say that. The little ones seem to love you,” you laugh, hoping to lighten the mood just a little.

Bucky chuckles and then sighs. “Yea, but I just...don’t feel like I belong.”

Hearing Bucky, this man who had his entire life ripped from him multiple times, who, after spending just a few short hours in total with, you ardently believed deserved every good thing in the world and then some, say that he feels he doesn’t belong among those who are supposed to love him most broke your heart. You know that it’s likely untrue that Rebecca’s family was anything but unwelcoming, but that Bucky even felt that way caused a pit to open in your stomach.

“Oh, Bucky…” you say softly, trying to avoid sounding full of pity. “I’m so sorry this all has happened to you.” He averts his gaze and shrugs. “You know what? I could probably stay for a little while longer…”

At that, Bucky looks back at you, eyes as bright as when his own sister recognized him on that very first day. You knew then that, no matter what, you’d do anything to keep that look on his face.

“I promise it won’t be for nothing. They have a ton of food, and I guess there are some famous deviled eggs that, not to sound awful but...are to die for.”

You stifle a laugh and shake your head as Bucky leads you back into the banquet room, excitedly rambling on about the various food items his relatives have to offer. After piling your plates full and grabbing a coffee, you follow Bucky to a small table conveniently tucked away in the corner. Over the next hour, you watch Bucky’s perfectly constructed walls begin to crumble just a little. You quickly uncover which topics make him uncomfortable, particularly those revolving around his current line of work and those he can talk about endlessly. You learn the ins and outs of what it was like being friends with Captain America before he was the size of a brick house. You also discover that Bucky is someone you could listen to talk for hours on end.

“I don’t think it ever came up,” Bucky says as he takes a seat back at the table, two fresh cups of coffee in hand, “how did you know my sister?”

You hum your thanks and take a sip before answering. “Well, a few years ago, or I guess a few years before the Snap, I started volunteering at the nursing home. You’d be surprised how many families just shove their parents or grandparents in those homes and forget about them. They get lonely and just want someone to talk to that isn’t a nurse or whatever. It got worse during those five years. Rebecca never really needed me to sit with her; her family visited all the time. However, she was still one of my favorite residents.

“She talked about you all the time, you know. Even when she couldn’t remember her own children’s names, she always had a story to tell about you. She was immensely proud of you.” Bucky grunts, and you playfully roll your eyes at him. “She was a good storyteller. Sometimes it was hard to tell if she was trying to pull my leg or not. She...she was something else, but she’s going to be dearly missed.”

A somber sort of silence falls between the two of you then. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s the kind charged with a unique sense of melancholy. It’s so strange, you think, to share a common heartbreak with someone you still barely know. Loss and grief have a curious way of bringing those once unknown together.

“Uncle Bucky,” a high-pitched squeal cuts through the moment and brings with it the excited, flushed face of an excited great-niece. “Uncle Bucky, I made you something!”

Bridget worms her way up onto Bucky’s lap, a piece of paper with her hand traced to look like a turkey in its center. “To Unkle Bucky, Luv Bridget” was written sloppily across the top.

You watch as Bucky’s expression goes from one of strain to that of absolute joy. “Thank you so much,” he smiles as he takes the paper and examines it as if it were a piece on display at the Louvre. “I know exactly where I’m going to hang this as soon as I find a frame.”

The little girl, who bears a striking resemblance to her long-lost great-uncle, beams as she wraps her arms around his neck and squeezes. You catch Bucky’s eye, causing him to break into an even wider smile. You hope he can see how truly and unconditionally he is loved.

You watch as she scrambles off back to where her brother and cousin are sitting, coloring away. You nod at the sweet drawing. “Planning on spending Thanksgiving with them?”

Bucky smooths his hand over the paper in front of him and thinks for a moment. “They invited me. I guess they, we, have family in Indiana that they usually visit for the holiday. I just...I don’t think so. I don’t want to be that far from where I’m needed most, and I think meeting a whole new set of family would be a bit much, ya know?”

You hum in response, fully understanding the dilemma. It’s unfortunate, though. “Well, I’m sure I could never compete with a real home-cooked meal, but I’m staying home because I don’t...really agree with the holiday and will be heating up a nice frozen turkey TV dinner if you would like to join. I might just throw in a pumpkin pie, too.”

Bucky looks up then, a soft, small smile turning up the corners of his lips. “Thanks, Y/N, really. But I’m not sure. Might not even be home,” he shrugs.

“Well,” you say as you look at the time on your phone, “the offer stands just in case you change your mind. But, hey, I think it’s time for me to leave for real now. I have some work to catch up on before I go back to the office tomorrow.”

You can tell he’s disappointed, but Bucky offers to walk you out anyway. He wants to stay and help his family clean up, or he would offer to walk you home. You make your rounds to say goodbye to the family you were familiar with and, when you reach the kiddie table to say goodbye, Bucky’s great-nephew Jackson refuses to let you go.

“Will I ever see you again even though we can’t come to visit Grammy no more?” he wails as he buries his little face into your stomach.

“Jackson, please,” his mother says as she comes to diffuse the situation. The little boy lets out one last sob into your dress before letting his mother pull him into her arms. “Y/N will still be around,” she smiles mischievously, directing her gaze over your shoulder to where Bucky waits at the front doors. “I’m almost sure of it.”

You can feel the heat of embarrassment as it claws up your neck, and you quickly give another round of hugs and goodbyes to the children before heading back to Bucky. “Is everything alright,” he asks as he hands you your coat.

“Fine. Jackson is just…” you slip on your coat and refuse to meet Bucky’s probing eyes, “dramatic sometimes.”

The weeks following Rebecca’s funeral saw Bucky locked away in his apartment. Calls from Sam and Wanda went unanswered, and the curtains were scarcely opened. He’d even ignored your attempts of delivering some semblance of comfort. The pasta dish you dropped off was left mostly untouched in his fridge, and he’d only managed to eat half a slice of a pumpkin pie you’d left for him on Thanksgiving. He knew that hiding away was doing nothing for his mental health, would do nothing to help him move past the loss and pain, but it was all he knew. How he reacted was all he could control, and Bucky liked to be in control.

His control, like most things in his life, came to an end far too quickly when Sam decided he’d finally had enough. Bucky knew that he couldn’t hide from his friends forever, but he would have liked to come out on his terms.

“Man, I know you’re in there,” Sam shouts as he knocks on the door of Bucky’s apartment. He’d been there for five minutes now, and, at this point, Bucky was testing to see how long he could keep the man waiting. “Seriously, Buck, open the door, or I’ll use Redwing to knock it down. And I won’t pay for repairs or reimburse your security deposit.”

Bucky sighs before hauling himself off of the couch. “What?” he deadpans as he opens the door. It takes everything in him not to slap the toothy grin off of Sam’s amused face.

“I was beginning to think I was going to have to call the Smithsonian - tell them to get your exhibit ready because, as far as any of us knew, you were dead,” Sam says as he pushes past Bucky into the apartment.

“What do you want?” Bucky asks again as Sam looks around the scarcely decorated apartment. From the discontent on his face, Bucky could tell Sam was less than thrilled with the state of his apartment. It was dark, the only furniture being a couch, a small coffee table, and an old TV he’d stolen from the Tower. Not exactly what one would consider a "space of their own."

“Listen,” Sam says as he moves to push open the curtains, “you’ve spent enough time locked up in here. You need to get out, see the sun, get some air. Plus, Wanda misses you, and that spider kid has been coming around asking for you.” Bucky grimaces at that. Peter Parker had asked his fair share of questions about his arm, and Bucky didn’t feel like entertaining the teenager anymore.

“Don’t give me that look,” Sam continues as he flops down on the couch. “Go get dressed. You can hang out with the crew for a few hours today. I promise if you have the worst time of your life, I’ll let you sit in your own filth and wallow for the foreseeable future, okay?”

After a moment of contemplation, Bucky agrees. Despite his dwindling interest in seeing anyone outside of his own reflection, he knew that seeing his friends - his chosen family of mix-matched misfits - would make him feel at least a little better. So, he allows Sam to tidy up the apartment, put away the dishes Bucky has been neglecting, and open the rest of the windows while he goes to get dressed. Bucky will never admit, however, just how much lighter he felt when he emerged from his room to the man he reluctantly called his best friend, smiling back at him.

December creeps up in a flurry of deadlines and personal obligations. The two-week break your company gave you every holiday season was a welcomed reprieve to the daily hustle and bustle of life, but it also meant long hours at the office in the weeks leading up to the holiday. Plus, the holidays were always a sour topic around the nursing home, as many of the residents were left to their own devices instead of being a part of family celebrations. That meant, in addition to staying until six or seven o’clock at work, you were spending hours afterward crafting decorations, cards, and personalized goodies for each of the residents you visited each week. This all, understandably, left you with little to no free time.

So, when the first of the month came rolling in, and you were yet to have played a single Christmas song or even thought about pulling your tiny table-top tree from storage, you felt deflated. You’d never been so thankful for online shopping and overnight shipping because, by Saturday afternoon, you had a brand new artificial Christmas tree waiting for you on your building’s front steps. In your excitement of getting into the holiday spirit, however, you completely overlooked just how you were going to get this tree up your narrow stairwell. It was like moving day all over again, except for this time you were sure a knight in shining vibranium armor was not going to show up to save the day.

To your dismay, you hadn’t seen Bucky since his sister’s funeral a month ago. It’s not like you hadn’t tried to make contact. You had prepared him a small meal the day after and had even left him half of the pumpkin pie you picked up from the market down the block. The only way you could tell he was even inside his apartment was the fact that, when you went back up to check, the items were gone. That or one of your other neighbors had taken them for themselves. Either way, you were missing Bucky. Even though you’d only had one proper conversation the entire time you’ve known him, you enjoyed just knowing Bucky was around. The thought of him suffering to any extent made your heart twist into unmanageable knots.

You sigh as you prop the building’s front door open, bringing your attention back to the task at hand. You were strong and independent, and you were more than capable of getting this hefty box up to your apartment. With that mindset in tow, you’re pleasantly surprised to turn around and find Bucky and another man making their way towards the building.

“He’s alive,” you exclaim, unable to hide the smile that blooms across your face. You’d feel embarrassed at the overexcitement that laced through your greeting, but you were genuinely happy to see that he had been out of his apartment and with a suspected friend.

“Uh, hey, Y/N,” Bucky says as he looks down to his boot-clad feet. Despite his quiet demeanor and tendency to be closed off, you’d never seen Bucky so...shy.

So you turn your attention to the second man standing in front of you. “I’m Y/N,” you smile as you bound down the stairs to the men, hand out and waiting for Bucky’s friend to shake, “Bucky’s neighbor!” You hope that whatever icy tension that had settled over Bucky would thaw if you directed the spotlight away from him.

“Sam,” the man says as a toothy grin breaks across his face. “Bucky didn’t mention he had neighbors.”

“It’s an apartment building, bird brain, of course I have neighbors,” Bucky mumbles as he buries his hands in his jacket pockets. He looks at you then or rather looks past you at the tall box leaning against the brick building. “What’re you up to?”

“Well, I just got a new Christmas tree delivered,” you say as you bite your lip and try to hide your desperation for help. “I was just getting ready to take it up.”

Bucky looks from you to the tree before settling his gaze on you. “Do you need some help,” he asks coyly.

You don’t even attempt to mask your smile as you guiltily nod your head. As Bucky turns to look at his friend, Sam puts his hands up. “Nah, man, I was getting ready to leave. Plus, heavy lifting is more your thing,” he says before looking at you. “Plus, Bucky is still learning how to play nice with others. And it’s my day off.”

You chuckle and playfully roll your eyes. “You better go relax, then. I’m sure a day off is rare for a superhero.”

As Sam starts backing up towards the way they came, he nods. “I like her, Buck. She really gets it. It was nice meeting you, Y/N!”

“Bye, Sam,” you wave as you watch him make his way down the sidewalk. “He seems really nice,” you say as Bucky hauls the tree box over his shoulder.

“He’s a pain in my ass,” he grumbles as he nods towards the front door.

All you can do is laugh and lead the way to your apartment.

“Thank you so much, Bucky,” you say as he finishes up pulling the faux tree from its too-small confines.

“It’s not a problem,” he shrugs and takes a step back to look at the tree. It’s in pretty rough shape, but once you’re done with it, no one will ever be able to tell it’s lived most of its life in a cardboard box. “You know, I haven’t had a Christmas tree since 1942.”

You stop shuffling around in the bin of ornaments and turn to look at him. “You’re joking,” you say, absolutely appalled. When Bucky shakes his head, you make a decision. “Stay and decorate with me, then.”

This obviously takes Bucky off guard, and before he can even attempt to come up with a reason to say no, you’re busting out your best pout, absolutely determined to share some holiday cheer with him this afternoon.

“Fine,” he sighs, but you can see the hint of a smile twitching on his lips.

You put Bucky to work immediately, pointing at boxes and bins full of ornaments, tinsel, and other holiday goodies. To your delight, he has quite the eye for placing ornaments, a skill he attributes to having a best friend who forced him into art classes and design lectures as teenagers. You’re almost certain he’s enjoying himself, a suspicion that is all but proven when he starts cheerfully humming along to the Christmas station you have playing on your phone.

“I’m really happy to see you out and about today,” you say as you hand him a sparkling orb to hang on one of the taller branches.

Bucky falters in his movements just a little before delivering the ornament onto its new home for the season. “I’m sorry I disappeared for a little bit…”

“Oh, Bucky,” you say as you place a hand on his metal forearm. You'd been surprised when he took his jacket off to reveal his metal arm with little more than the sleeve of his t-shirt covering it. You try not to think of the implications behind the small but seemingly intimate action. “Never apologize for how you grieve. We all process and deal with things differently.”

A moment passes in silence, though it’s not awkward. It’s simply a moment where both of you seem to process what was said. Surprisingly, it’s Bucky who breaks the silence. “That pasta thing you left me, that was really good,” he chuckles.

“Remind me, and I’ll write the recipe down for you. It’s one of my favorite comfort foods.”

Time passes easily with Bucky. Despite what Sam said early, Bucky is an excellent companion to decorate with. He cracks jokes every now and then and comments on your collection of antique ornaments. You even manage to get him to try some of that crockpot wine you had attempted to make earlier in the day. By dinner time, your tree is fully dressed and situated in its corner, and you’re tipsy on holiday cheer and alcohol. As you make your way towards the couch with a fresh glass in your hand, Bucky begins to hum along to Bing Crosby’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” as the beginning notes start to float through your apartment.

“God, I remember when this song came out,” he says quietly as you take your seat. “They played it nonstop at camp. Dunno what they were trying to do, raise our spirits, maybe? It just made me think about how Ma and Becca were going to be all alone that Christmas.” He pauses then, likely lost in the memory. You’re about to say something to pull him back from wherever he drifted off to when he adds, “I couldn’t help thinkin’ that this was a song I’d ask a girl to dance to, too.”

“I didn’t know you could dance,” you laugh as you set your wine glass down.

“Oh sweetheart, I had girls lining up outta the hall to dance with me back in the day. I wasn’t always so…” he turns to look at you and gesticulates with both arms to make his point, whatever that may be.

You squint your eyes in a challenging glare and stand. “You have to show me these moves, Bucky Barnes.” He opens his mouth to protest, but you quickly cut him off. “I’ll sing along if you don’t. I know you can hear the concerts I put on for my shampoo bottles in the shower. Save you and the neighbors the show, come on.”

Bucky gives you a mock grimace before giving in. You’re not sure if it’s the wine that’s causing time to feel so slow or if it’s the fact you want to savor the image of Bucky standing over you, flesh hand outstretched for you to take. You don’t question it, though, and simply step into his warm, welcoming embrace. It’s all too easy to melt into Bucky’s arms and allow him to guide you around your tiny living room.

A few moments pass with little more than Crosby’s melodic crooning drifting around the two of you. You hope that, despite how close you are, Bucky can’t hear how rapidly your heart is beating. When you finally muster the courage to look at him, you find that he was already looking at you. He squeezes your hand a little and gives you possibly one of the most tender smiles you’ve ever seen.

“Nice to know I still have it,” he exclaims as he winks, and you smile and shake your head before resting it on his shoulder.

When the song ends, Bucky ends his effortless glide across the antiqued hardwood floors, and you pull back from his chest enough so that you can look into his eyes. If your gaze lingers a little too long on his plump, pink lips, you’ll never admit. Despite the impossibly low lighting of the room, you can see the way Bucky’s crystal blue eyes sparkle and dance when they catch the lights from your tree.

“Thank you for helping me today,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“‘Course,” Bucky replies and, as the seconds pass, you’re pretty sure that he begins to lean towards you, eyes flicking between yours and your lips.

Just as you’re about to close the small distance, a disorienting ringing begins from somewhere. Bucky pulls away, irritation quickly taking over his expression. “Goddammit,” he practically growls as he pulls his phone from his pocket. “What, Sam?”

You watch as a range of emotions flash across Bucky’s face before a seriousness shadows his features. He barks out a gruff, “See you in a few,” before quickly ending the call. “We’re, uh, needed. Immediately.”

“O-oh,” you mummer, disappointed that he has to leave so quickly. You watch from where Bucky had stopped the two of you as he gathers his jacket and scrambles to put his boots on. He’s almost to your door when your brain finally catches up to what is going on, and, in that moment, you’re appreciative for how small your apartment is because you’re able to get to him before he is fully out of the apartment.

“Wait, Bucky,” you call as you grab for his arm. When he turns to look at you, you almost back out of what you’re about to say, but you persevere, knowing that the world will continue to turn if he rejects you. “Come to Christmas with me. My parents only live two hours away. We’re pretty low-key, no big party or anything. Please?”

Bucky considers you for a moment before he visibly softens and nods. “You know what, sure. That...that sounds great.”

You smile so wide when you hear him accept the invitation, something you thought for sure would be for not. Before you can even consider your actions, you’re leaning up to place a chaste kiss on his rough and prickly cheek. “Stay safe out there,” you say gently. Bucky simply nods, a blush begins to work it’s way up his neck.

You stand in your doorway until you hear the front door of your building click shut behind him. You’ll never confess to it, but when your own apartment door is securely shut behind you, you do an excited, happy dance.

[degenerate-yandere]

Damon & Ray Headcanons

Woo boy this took awhile to get through, but here it is! Some general Headcanons for my boys to lay some groundwork, I plan on doing some fics for them very soon.

Ray has some double-ups from a previous post, simply because I wanted this to be the comprehensive post with all their information in one spot, if that makes sense.

Anyway I hope y’all enjoy! This was partly for the beautiful @ramwrites​ who wanted some Damon content, and who am I to deny the Queen’s request.

Picrews used: Damon, Ray.

TW: Abuse, kidnapping, yandere, violence, implied murder, drugging, non-consensual touching, stalking, obsessive behaviour, possessive behaviour

Damon:

Attraction + Pursuit

Disgust - an ample word to describe Damon’s initial reaction to these newfound emotions that threaten the fortitude of his petrified heart. Every time you cause his breath to hitch in his throat, he’s reminded of just how damn vulnerable you make him; a highly unwelcomed source of insecurity. If Damon hates one thing, it’s being undermined.

As a result of his mounting insecurity, it can be expected that his infatuation, at first, manifests as resentment. Damon will be especially cruel to you - intimidation, bullying, and public degradation are all outlets of his internal frustration. You’ll think he hates you, and maybe a part of him does. He doesn’t feel guilty, no; this is all your fault, you’re the one who makes him feel this way - It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.

This torment is short-lived however. It’ll come as an epiphany as he towers over you, looking down at your comparatively fragile form. You are pathetic, but more importantly, he isn’t. Damon’s bigger and stronger than you, so what’s stopping him from simply making you his? He’s quick to surmise that he’s entitled to you. All this stems from Damon’s immense ego; an inflated sense of superiority, and a fragile one at that.

As far Damon’s concerned, you need him as much as he needs you. First-hand experience has shown him just how weak and defenseless you are. You need him to keep you safe. He’ll protect you, he likes to keep what’s his intact - unknowing to the fact he’s the exact thing you need to be protected from.

It’ll give you whiplash how fast Damon’s demeanor seems to change. You’ll be lucky to receive a grumbled apology for his past actions. He’ll loom above you nigh constantly, glaring daggers at any who’d approach you. His intimidating presence is enough on its own to isolate you.

It’s important to note Damon’s utter lack of experience. Sure, he’s had numerous flings in the past, but this - this is different. Romance is an alien concept, and courtship is an incomprehensible endeavor. But he tries - he makes an effort to lower his gravelly voice, relaxing his body language and resisting the urge to belittle you. He’ll bring you odd gifts and trinkets, shoving them into your hands with no explanation other than a grunt. You doubt they were acquired through wholesome means. Damon will grumble compliments, ones that, when accompanied with his threatening voice and vulgar verbiage, are often perceived as thinly-veiled threats. He tries, he really does - but his patience is easily waned.

Any inquiries you raise about his insistence on shadowing you are met with a scoff and a disingenuous insult;

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart.”

No matter how many times you ask him, his answer will always be the same - nonchalant and unsatisfactory.

He’ll grow tired if you continue to fear him or try to avoid him. You should be grateful. Damon will resort to threats and manipulation to force you to accept his advances.

Anyone he deems a threat, whether that be individuals he believes might harm you, partners, exes, or even people who simply stare at you too long, will all meet a similar fate - broken, bloodied, and barely recognizable. He likes to take pictures of his hard work, he can’t help but feel a sense of pride as he looks through them. Maybe he’d show you one day, to let you know just how grateful you should be that he’s keeping you safe. There’s a wicked glee he derives from pummeling people for your sake.

Kidnapping is an inevitability; the urge to protect you from those who’d dare to take you away from him, and his selfish desire to own you, will make that decision a definite one.

It’ll be easy - cornering you in some isolated spot late at night, caging you against his built body as he tells you just how long he’s been waiting for this. He’ll overpower you with his abundant brute strength, remarking that the more you struggle, the rougher he’ll be - a promise he makes well on. It’s hard to deny his joy of having you struggle against him, completely at his mercy. It serves as an omen of the life that awaits you.

Post-kidnapping + Punishment

Damon’s captivity is stern and demanding. There is no ’grace period’, no time allocated to allow you to grow somewhat accustomed with the nightmare you’ve been thrust into.

His expectations, as demeaning as they are, are made evident from the beginning. You are to accept his affections, no matter how forceful or rough. You will show him ample appreciation for protecting you, an act which he considers merciful.

Damon is quick to ‘correct your mistakes’, and ensures you never make them again. There’s no restraint, no mercy - but he likes it when you beg anyway.

Punishments are cruel and severe; Taunting you as he holds the cindering end of his cigarette inches above your skin, allowing you to feel the heat emanating from it as you beg and plead - cut short as he presses it against your flesh. Isolation, food deprivation, impassioned beatings -  all serving as painful reprimands.

Behind his anger and frustration lies an undeniable sadistic enthusiasm as he punishes you. Damon loves putting you in your place, he adores holding immense power over you.

Bite marks litter your body, purple patches coat your neck - Damon’s constant, little ‘reminders’ to show you who you belong to. His affection is equally barbaric; his touches leave bruises, his kisses result in bloodied, swollen lips.

Don’t squirm when he forces you onto his lap to place kisses along your shoulder, don’t cry when he tightly embraces you in bed, and maybe he’ll be gentle.

His ego is a possible source of exploitation - worship him, tell him how big and strong he is, confess your adoration, and he may just let his guard down.

If you ever consider escape, pray he never finds you. Damon will yank you by the hair as he tells you just how much you’ve fucked up. A series of harsh punishments follow, to ingrain the fact that you belong to him, that you can never escape him. There’s no painkillers, no warning or care as he begins applying painful pressure to your legs. He’ll ensure you can’t run from him again.

Non-Yandere Headcanons 

Damon found work as a bouncer for a few years, until he was abruptly fired for hospitalizing a rowdy client. As a result, he’s resorted to… less than ethical means of income.

Damon’s birthday is on March 27th, though he isn’t one to celebrate it.

You bet this dude has a motorcycle, and he treats it like his child.

Damon is built like an absolute tank - a brick wall of raw, hard power. He’s proud of his stature.

He tastes, and often smells, like booze and cigarettes - indicative of his poor habits.

Ray:

Attraction + Pursuit

Ray’s infatuation, a product of a seemingly inconsequential interaction, is quick to fester into enraptured obsession. He’ll form an emotional dependency, a suffocating need, toward the poor soul he’s latched onto.

He’ll find a desire to satiate his growing obsession, to satisfy the numerous questions about you that weigh constantly on his mind. He can’t approach you directly, the very thought makes his heart threaten to leap from his chest. Instead, he’ll opt to stalk you, just so he can learn everything about you. He’ll become acquainted with your place of residence, rifling through your belongings - perhaps even taking some to keep for himself. You could’ve sworn you had more pairs of underwear.

The more he finds out about you, the more ultimately enamoured he becomes. Ray can’t stop thinking about you. That’s when the drawings begin. They start as idle sketches, cute doodles accompanied by scribbled love-hearts. It isn’t long before Ray is struck with grander inspiration, your likeness becoming a mainstake in his manga. He draws panels upon panels of his love-sick longing; taking you on the romantic dates you deserve, heartfelt confessions of love which reek of shoujo cliche, tender kisses and gentle touches. They line the walls of his room, accompanied by the various photographs he’s taken of you - for reference, of course.

That isn’t the extent of his collection, however. Ray keeps a private stash; the outlet for his more salacious desires. He feels somewhat bad about drawing your perfect form in such disgusting, compromising scenarios, but his filthy needs overpower his consideration.

Ray’s rationality, as middling as it is, only erodes as his obsession grows more unrestrained. He’ll be increasingly emboldened, sending you love letters and anonymous text messages with such detail that they establish…. troubling implications.

His gnawing need for you only grows further. It keeps him up at night, his fingers shakely caressing your clothes desperately hoping it’ll bring him comfort. He wants to rip his hair out sometimes - he just wants to touch you, he wants to love you, he needs you more than anything.

Ray isn’t a violent man, but if anyone threatens his one-sided relationship with you, well - he can’t let that happen. A baseball bat, and the lovestruck conviction to swing it, work wonders at remeding his problems. He doesn’t mean to hurt anyone, he frantically tells himself as he washes the blood from his hands.

He eventually reaches the conclusion that he has to take you. The very thought of you being swept away, abandoning him, is enough to make his decision a certainty. Ray assures himself that it’s what’s best for you - he can take care of you, keep you safe and secure.

Unlike Damon, Ray goes about his kidnapping with significantly more finesse. He can’t stand the thought of hurting you - he’ll instead opt to slip something in your drink, or ambush you with a strong-smelling rag against your nose.

Post-kidnapping + Punishment

You’ll wake up, gagged and handcuffed to his bedpost; This marks the beginning of your ‘relationship’. He’ll try desperately to tell you he won't hurt you, to convince you that he just wants to help you. His fingers seem magnetised to you, itching and yearning to feel you beneath them. The blazing blush across his face, the bashful grin adorning his lips, and the utterly deranged adoration that speckle his eyes betray just how content he is.

He’ll be quick to show you just how much he loves you; flicking through all his artwork of you, reaffirming that it’s all been for you.

Ray is patient, understanding, but completely overbearing. When he sees how terrified you are he can’t help but coil himself around you and mutter reassurances against your skin - even if he’s the very source of your fear

“It’s okay, everything’s going to be okay. I-I have you now, you d-don’t have to be afraid anymore”.

It won’t take long to realize just how needy he is - his touch-starved skin rarely leaving yours. He relishes in your sweet touch, nuzzling against you as his arms wrap around you, his fingers exploring every inch of your flesh. Whines and groans escape him whenever he’s deprived of your addictive touch.

Ray’s insists on feeding you, sitting you on his lap as he plays video games or draws, pulling you close and burying his nose in your hair as he drifts to sleep. His kisses, as rare as they are without your consent, are sloppy and inexperienced - but laced with such a raw, unrestrained need.

Lives for your praise and validation, outright begging for it. His heart swells at any crumbs he can extrapolate. You stared at his artwork? You must love it! You didn’t flinch away when he kissed you? You must want him just as much as he wants you.

Ray isn’t one for punishments, he couldn’t bring himself to willingly hurt his precious darling. If you grow violent or reckless, he’ll simply pin you down and wait out your little outburst.

But if he ever fears you may leave him, or if you ever manage to escape and he catches you - he has no quarrels about doing anything if it means you can’t escape. The thought of you abandoning him makes him completely unhinged. Ray’ll do whatever it takes, even if it means hurting you. He’ll cry and scream, begging you to tell him why ‘you’re making him do this’.

“Y-You can’t leave me! Don’t you get it?! I-I can’t live without you!”

Non-yandere Headcanons

Ray’s birthday is on October 10th, although he never usually has anyone to celebrate with...

Despite his shut-in nature, Ray likes to remain fit. He frequents the gym at his apartment complex (at night of course; less people). He did martial arts during his teenage years, and reluctantly joined his school’s volleyball team. This results in a lean physique comprised of sinewy, surprisingly strong muscles - all the better to restrain protect his darling.

He makes money from his web manga and commissions, as well as working part time at a videogame store. Has a surprisingly good work ethic.

Survives off the college diet of caffeine and ramen - but he’ll try his damndest to change it if his darling is less than receptive of his refined cuisine.

His hygiene… isn’t the best. He’s a firm believer that a shower can be replaced with spraying oneself with copious amounts of cheap, intoxicatingly strong body spray.

[booksbookssomemoviesandbooks]

Book Recs

Hello! so for my first post, I'll recommend some books, so y'all can have a closer look at some fandoms I'll post about! enjoy!!

1.  

Harry Potter By J.K. Rowling is definitely an interesting, well-written series! there are 7 books however, and the books get bigger as the series progresses. It's sometimes difficult to know the exact order, so I'll list it below:

Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone)

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Although the movies are great, they don't include all the amazing details, as with all movies. A short summary:

Harry Potter, a young boy who’s being constantly abused by his uncle Vernon and aunt Petunia, gets a peculiar letter from the magical school of Hogwarts, where he spends most of his time, becoming his home.

Quotes:

“To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure." ― Albus Dumbledore

“You’re just as sane as I am" - Luna Lovegood

“Mischief managed" - Fred and George Weasley

It is Important to know that j*r is a huge transphobe, along with other things, and is currently being erased by the fandom itself.

2.

Percy Jackson and the Olympians, along with the other series by Rick Riordan, is a definite must-read. With each book, you can really notice the character developments and a lot more! There is loads of representation in this one, with lgbtqia+ characters, black characters, Muslim characters and more. It's very action-packed and addicting, sucking you into the magnificent world of Half-Bloods and Demigods within the first page. The first series consists of 5 books, in the following order:

Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief

Percy Jackson and the Sea of Monsters

Percy Jackson and the Titan's Curse

Percy Jackson and the Battle of The Labyrinth

Percy Jackson and the Last Olympian

THE MOVIES ARE TRASH SO I DEFINITELY DO NOT RECOMMEND WATCHING THEM BEFORE READING THE BOOKS!!! There were many changes and the movies aren't nearly as good as the books. A short summary:

Percy Jackson, a 12 year-old who lives with his mother, Sally, and step-father, Gabe, attends the private boarding school Yancy Academy. While on a school trip, his teacher, Mrs. Dodds, turns into a fury and attacks him. This, in turn, triggers a series of other problems and adventures.

Quotes:

“If my life is going to mean anything, I have to live it myself.” - Percy Jackson

“With great power, comes great need to nap. Wake me up later." - Nico Di Angelo

“Even strength has to bow down to wisdom sometimes." - Annabeth Chase

3.

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins is one of my most recommended series! With everything it deals with, from the Capitol to the districts to the champions, the books are amazing! 

Order:

The Hunger Games

Catching Fire

Mockingjay

Starring the movies is the amazing Jennifer Lawrence, but with all books, the movies have slight differences, although I definitely recommend watching them when you're done with the books.

A Short Summary:

In what was once North America, the Capitol of Panem maintains its hold on its 12 districts by forcing them each to select a boy and a girl, called Tributes, to compete in a nationally televised event called the Hunger Games. Every citizen must watch as the youths fight to the death until only one remains. District 12 Tribute Katniss Everdeen has little to rely on, other than her hunting skills and sharp instincts, in an arena where she must weigh survival against love.

(FILM SYNOPSIS)

Quotes:

"May the odds be ever in your favor." - Effie Trinket

"Fire is catching, and if we burn, you burn with us!" - Katniss Everdeen

“Hope is the only thing stronger than fear.” - President Snow

4.

Divergent is another book with a huge fandom, and rightfully so. This book is amazing, and you honestly can't live without having read it!

Order:

Divergent

Insurgent

Allegiant 

Surprisingly, I haven't watched the movies yet, but I hear that they aren’t that bad, so you should give them a go!

Summary:

In a world run by fictional classes known as factions, children who reach the age of 16 begin to choose which factions they wish to call home for the rest of their lives. Each faction comes with its own ups and downs, so it's definitely a hard choice, especially for someone as unique as Beatrice.

Quotes:

“Becoming fearless isn't the point. That's impossible. It's learning how to control your fear, and how to be free from it“ - Four

“We believe in ordinary acts of bravery, in the courage that drives one person to stand up for another.” - Dauntless Motto

"We are not the same. But we are, somehow, one." - Tris

5. 

You might have heard of this series, and it's really addictive, trust me! The Mortal Instruments is one of the most astonishing books I've ever read, and it's most definitely my go-to when recommending a book series!

Order:

City of Bones

City of Ashes

City of Glass

City of Fallen Angels

City of Lost Souls

City of Heavenly Fire

Again, (I know this is rather disappointing) I haven't watched the movies, but do check them out!

Summary:

Clary Fray's search for her missing mother leads her into an alternate New York called Downworld, filled with mysterious faeries, hard-partying warlocks, not-what-they-seem vampires, an army of werewolves, and the demons who want to destroy it all.

via: https://shadowhunters.com/shadowhunters-novels/the-mortal-instruments/#:~:text=Clary%20Fray's%20search%20for%20her,want%20to%20destroy%20it%20all.

Quotes:

“Heroes aren't always the ones who win. They're the ones who lose, sometimes. But they keep fighting, they keep coming back. They don't give up. That's what makes them heroes.” - Clary Fairchild

“If I cannot move Heaven, I will raise Hell.” - Sebastion Morgenstern

“The descent into Hell is easy.” - Motto of the Nephilim

6.

Gay. What more needs to be said?

SADLY, there isn't a movie yet, but I think they're working on one, or sure though

Summary:

Set in a world in which a female Democrat from Texas wins the presidency in 2016, Red, White & Royal Blue chronicles the illicit romance between the president's son, Georgetown senior Alex Claremont-Diaz (Dad is a Mexican-American senator), and Prince Henry of Wales, his childhood nemesis.

Via: https://www.wsj.com/articles/red-white-royal-blue-book-summer-beach-read-11565285001#:~:text=Set%20in%20a%20world%20in,of%20Wales%2C%20his%20childhood%20nemesis.

Also, classic enemies-friends-lovers arc and honestly it's amazing

Quotes:

“As your mother, I can appreciate that maybe this isn’t your fault, but as the president, all I want is to have the CIA fake your death and ride the dead-kid sympathy into a second term.” - Ellen Claremont 

" 'that’s because you can’t hear all the menacing gobbling.' 'Yes, famously the most sinister of all animal sounds, the gobble.' " - Harry and Alex

"History, huh? Bet we could make some." - Alex

7.

I’m sure you've heard at least a little bit about this book. While not nearly as famous as ones mentioned above, it's still just as good, of not better. I'd say this book is one of my favorites, to be honest. It speaks about a lot of topics people usually find disturbing, and it makes me so happy that it's there, it's written, it's amazing. PTSD, coming out issues, abusive relationships and more, this book is truly awesome.

TRIGGER WARNING 

Summary:

A young boy named Charlie usually dissociates, and pushes other people away. He’s afraid of beginning high school, until he meets two other students who show him how bizarre and amazing the world is.

Quotes:

“And in that moment, I swear we were infinite” - Charlie

“We accept the love we think we deserve” - Mr. Anderson

“You can't just sit there and put everybody's lives ahead of yours and think that counts as love" - Sam

8. 

This book is honestly pro-feminist and I think that's much more than enough

Summary:

Kaur explores the true impact of sexual abuse and harassment, as well as the difficulties of immigrating, being a female, and depression.

It's also a poem

TRIGGER WARNING

Quotes:

“what is stronger

than the human heart

which shatters over and over

and still lives”

“you do not just wake up and become the butterfly 

- growth is a process”

“on the last day of love

my heart cracked inside my body"

9.

This book isn't very well-known, which really sucks because I really love how it speaks about the consequences of WWII from the German point of view. And about the Germans who did not believe in Hitler's ways. It's also based on a real story, and it's so cool

Summary: 

A nurse working in a nursing home meets a peculiar old lady who decides to tell her her story when she meets the nurse's younger son, Karl, who reminded her of her brother. Lizzie (the old lady) speaks about life in Dresden before the war, and even after it. She also tells them the story about the strange, magnificent elephant in her garden.

Quotes:

“That was the only way of keeping our hopes alive, by looking beyond all we were seeing around us, and the shadow of disaster that hung over us.” - 

“I think I have always had a strong sense of justice, of fair play, of what is right and what is wrong.” - 

“Our home should be an oasis of peace and harmony for us in a troubled world.” - Lizzie (Quoting Papi)

10.

This book is pro-blm and it's ahead of its time (by like 2 years but still). 

Summary:

Sixteen-year-old Starr Carter moves between two worlds: the poor neighborhood where she lives and the fancy suburban prep school she attends. The uneasy balance between these worlds is shattered when Starr witnesses the fatal shooting of her childhood best friend Khalil at the hands of a police officer. via: https://socialjusticebooks.org/the-hate-u-give/#:~:text=Sixteen%2Dyear%2Dold%20Starr%20Carter,hands%20of%20a%20police%20officer.

Quotes:

“Sometimes you can do everything right and things will still go wrong. The key is to never stop doing right.” - Lisa

“Daddy once told me there’s a rage passed down to every black man from his ancestors, born the moment they couldn’t stop the slave masters from hurting their families. Daddy also said there’s nothing more dangerous than when that rage is activated.” - Starr

“Everybody wants to talk about how Khalil died,” I say. “But this isn’t about how Khalil died. It’s about the fact that he lived. His life mattered. Khalil lived!” I look at the cops again. “You hear me? Khalil lived!” - Starr

[bbbarneswrites]

Small Places

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Don’t they say that after a storm, there’s always calm?  Genre: Romance/fluff Rating: T Warnings: Swearings, mental health issues 3,809 words

Notes: Here we are with a new piece after all these months! The songs we got for this one are The Moon by The Swell Season and Cellar Door by Angus & Julia Stone. Hope you guys enjoy it! Feedback always welcomed! <3

The small studio stays right in the heart of Brooklyn, surrounded by themed bars, bright restaurants and a crowd of millennials that makes him cringe every once in a while.

It’s a shoebox.

A bed that fights for space with a small couch, a kitchen that can be sized by two of his steps alone and a cramped bathroom with a bathtub that he honestly can’t fit in. But be as it may, Bucky has never been in a more comfortable, warm and welcoming atmosphere.

A bed with polka-dotted, fluffy blankets, a couch with bright colored and quirky pillows, a kitchen with a line of gifted succulents by the counter and a bathroom with filled shelves of sweet smelling products.

Pictures on the walls, sketches and love notes hung to the fridge, shared clothes thrown over in little corners.

Everything is so lively and familiar—it feels like home outside of his home.

The four walls of your little studio have been witnesses to so much. Whispered love confessions, frantic murmurs of comfort, quiet pleads in between moans, anger filled little lies, and the list can only go on.

There’s a Friday night.

Discarded containers of take-out on the coffee table, and maybe a carton of Ben & Jerry’s forgotten around after a fight over the last spoon. Netflix midway through a random episode of Stranger Things because yeah, Bucky has a growing crush on Winona Ryder. Peace fills up every fiber of his being, and looking down to the sight before him, things can’t feel more right.

“Your heart is beating so fast.” You mumble quietly, chin leaning up to rest upon his chest. A flesh arm tightens around your frame, and a lazy grin grows on your lips. “Are you nervous being around me, Bucky?”

The lightness laced to your voice is familiar, a tone he’s heard many, many times within the warmth of a shared trustfulness.

A smile curls up his lips. Even then, the sound never fails to make Bucky content and happy.

“I’m always nervous around you, baby.” He jokes, a gentle kiss pressing to your temple that earns a happy hum from your chest. “You’re way out of my league.”

Bucky’s smile widens with a muffled whine of protest, and his vibranium hand reaches out to push a strand of hair away from your eyes when you shift on the way-too-small couch. With your face still buried to his chest, there’s no space left between both of you. The fluffy hem of your socks tickles his legs and the skin of his tummy rise up in shivers under your fingers.

Meanwhile, Erica Sinclair goes off about capitalism on TV.

Despite the length of your relationship, a small part of him still gets surprised over moments like this.

Soft fingertips reaching out to his marred left shoulder, a light touch to trace the harsh and old outlines of his scars, by now the only ugly looking, physical reminder of a time of his life that’s best left behind to be buried and forgotten.

With a little giggle escaping from your mouth, Bucky halts his thoughts to focus.

“You’re cute.” You wink playfully, biting your lower lip to hold back another laugh. His cheeks instantly flush a little under the fairy lights of your walls. “This little scar here looks like a stick figure.”

The touch feels nice as your index finger brush over a particular spot near his collarbone. Though he’s observed every single detail of the marks in several occasions, more than enough to make him very familiar with its designs, he immediately takes your hand with his own. Wrapped fingers together, you guide him through his little stick figure.

It’s a little joke, he knows, but Bucky still grins as you make him trace the funny lines of a quirky drawing to his own skin.

And when you tip his chin with your thumb a moment later? Warmth radiating from your body pressed up to his? And lips sweetly meeting his own?

That’s his peace.

There’s a Wednesday morning.

After arriving from a mission, sore muscles and half-healed scabs, Bucky just couldn’t see himself going back to the apartment he shares with Sam—especially after a two week long mission, taking in everything that his partner had to say. And trust, Sam Wilson has a lot of things to say.

To top of it all, he’s missed you.

Missed your laugh and your kisses and your touch. The way you tuck his hair behind his ears, the plush of your lips to the base of his neck. Your cuddles and your warmth and your care. Two long, painstaking slow weeks.

The place is warm as he steps in, slits of moonlight escaping through your blinds. Coming home to you feels right, takes off an edge from his heart, as if everything is right in the world again.

Only silence as Bucky slips under the blankets.

Bleary eyes barely taking him in.

And a happy but tired hum before a familiar frame cuddles to his side.

Sleep welcomes him right in.

Any person that lives in New York can easily list a series of upsides and downsides to coexisting in a studio apartment this small. An upsidde is that you can see and hear everything and the downside is that you can see and hear everything.

White numbers cover up your face on the screen of his phone as it marks 3:36AM. The shuffling and clashing in the kitchen isn’t unusual except for the late hour. Barely four hours of sleep later, and Bucky’s watching a pajama-clad you pour chocolate into a bowl through squinted, heavy eyes.

“Think I need to put you on a sleep schedule.” He murmurs. The sound is low but enough to make you jump on the spot, turn around with a scowl that makes him chuckle. “Come back to bed.”

The tense features of your face melt into a mix of worry and dejection.

“I can’t!” You cry, hands coming up to cover your face in frustration, words all muffled. “I promised I’d bake brownies for the book fair but I was so tired and I meant to take a nap while waiting for you but I just slept and now I woke you up!”

It takes two steps until Bucky has your frame into his arms, a perfect fit that rises butterflies in your stomach after the two, very long weeks. With vibranium fingertips brushing along your cheeks in a gentle caress, every negative feeling slips away.

“You were waiting for me?” Bucky pulls back a little, enough to see you pout through a nod. A loving smile grows easily to his mouth right before a gentle kiss to your lips. “I love you.”

Brownies are made in record time with two sets of wandering hands.

And are successfully sold out by two excellent sellers.

There’s a Monday afternoon.

Clouds are looming over the city. Cold, bitter winds singing loud enough outside. The first few signs of fall can be spotted by a quick walk in the neighborhood by now, trees turning into different shades of brown as pumpkin orange starts to pop everywhere.

Back to a few hours earlier, Bucky begrudgingly kisses you goodbye at the cramped doorstep, fixing your heart-shaped earmuffs with a wish of a good day at school. No paperwork or assignments under his name for a change, the place shelters him from any unexpected Avenger responsability, and he’s more than glad to wait home for you.

Separated dirty clothes, clean dishes back to the cupboards, made-up bed with fresh sheets, organized books and trinkets and papers for the small study table.

Homecoming isn’t as comforting.

Between quiet sniffles, red-rimmed teary eyes and angry huffs of frustration with the addition of a warm tea cup, Bucky cuddles you up to his lap until peace has settled again.

“You gonna tell me who I’m killing tonight?” He jokes half-heartedly, chest a little bit lighter as you giggle quietly, offering a slap to his arm. “Just say the word and I’ll do it.”

A single look from you and his heart swells with affection, the feelings hidden behind the simple act never failing to leave him speechless, wondering if there’s another shoe to drop.

There’s always another shoe to drop in his life.

“You don’t do that anymore, remember?” You say softly, a smart smile playing on your lips that’s followed by a tired, but now content sigh. “I’m okay, promise. Just a bad morning in school that wasn’t expected.”

Hands brought closer together and a kiss pressed to your knuckles by his lips.

Bad days take no excuse.

“Okay, doll.” Bucky frowns, eyes squinted in pretend suspicion as he smirks. “You really sure though? I can call Sam.”

“I’m sure, goober.” You roll your eyes through a laugh, instantly leaning closer until his lips are brushing to your own. “It’s all better now with you.”

Seventy years of a missed life, most of which he’s spent nearly under seven feet underground, locked up like an animal and abused for selfish power. Ruthless damage to every inch of his being, every sliver of hope taken from him without permission for decades. Now, eight years after a seeming never ending storm, Bucky finds reason in all of this.

It feels good to know that she’s with him too.

And if the day ends up to both of you curled up in the back booth of the diner down the street, ordering a late night breakfast with pancakes and eggs and bacon, then it’s a good day after all.

There’s a Thursday night.

The day has been slow in the apartment given your day-off from school. Silence and a few movies on Netflix are your companions, except for the visit of your friendly neighborhood stray cat, Alpine, who climbs up to your windowsill every day without fail. Bucky is usually the one who feeds him, and mostly the one who’s unofficially adopted the kitten.

A pause here for a quick, improvised meal between homework, another pause there for a bath under glittery bath bombs.

Being away from him is normal.

His missions can last to mere hours to unexpected months. Living within the job is basically the norm, all with recruits training, team meetings and securing duties. Your classes are demanding, both physically and mentally. It never ends and never leaves you, always something to be started or done back home.

Either way, anxiousness never leaves you in a week like this.

Nearing a certain date on the calendar, Bucky’s plagued by restless nights.

It feels like a sore spot in his body, one he knows all about it but still can’t help but be upset at, poking and prodding around as a way to remember it. Despite knowing his best-friend way too well, Steve’s choice wasn’t one taken lightly back then.

The reasoning is fair and understandable but it doesn’t lessen the bitterness of a brief meeting after a six year long disappearance.

Not much can be done by now, but two years after Steve’s official death, Bucky still plays what ifs in his head. 

After gentle coaxing in between kisses in the night before and encouraging hugs and squeezes in the morning after, Bucky spends the whole day back at the compound, a scheduled therapy session set to the calendar of his phone.

When sunlight falls to a sheet of night stars, familiar but heavy steps sound like music to your  ears.

A random song playing through your laptop and slow beats welcome Bucky home.

It takes a single look at you until he’s sighing relieved, hauling your frame up to his arms in the middle of the small kitchen, where you both barely fit in during busy mornings with shoulder bumps and mumbled but playful complaints.

Sure it has been a pretty nostalgic day but nothing beats being right there.

“You smell good.” Bucky says, an almost shy mumble against your hair, his arms gently tightening around you. “Peach?”

The easy but definitely familiar guess makes you smile instantly. Heat rises on your cheeks, your chin rests on his chest as your eyes look for his own, very blue, very alive compared to a few hours back. Golden detailed fingertips brush your cheeks and a content hum escapes from your lips instantly.

“That bathbomb you gave me, remember?” You smile, voice sounding small and equally as shy until Bucky tips down, his lips meeting your own in a featherlike kiss that makes you sigh. “How are you feeling?”

Bucky smiles, crinkles forming in the corners of his eyes and then, the smooth sway starts. Finding rhythm with the slow beats still playing background, you can’t help but feel your chest lighter. In that moment, neither of you need to share words to know, he doesn’t need to tell you about his session for the feelings to sink.

Despite any doubt and above any insecurity, being right there feels just right.

It’s not his day and age. For a long time, he was nothing but a misplaced piece of the universe. Then without his best-friend, just an unknown face for the team to swallow.

Not anymore.

There was a time of misplacement and sure, he no longer has Steve on a back-up call but life has given him good things. Good people. Sam and Wanda. Love. You. And in that moment, after a long day of reflection, Bucky just feels thankful above any odd feeling.

“Feelin’ great.” He muses. It’s genuine and it makes your smile widen upon his accent slip, only cut short by Bucky’s lips briefly meeting yours again. “Thank you.”

Background music switching to an upbeat song and the shared slow, careful sway doesn’t change.

“What for?” You frown, wide eyes flicking between confusion and amusement through a quiet, huffed laugh. A beat until you look up through your eyelashes, and a sheepish shrug. “I haven’t done anything.”

Bucky bites back the reply—you’ve done everything and more, you’re everything—words for another time, other plans, a day with a better start. After all, he’s not going anywhere.

This is his place now.

And in the end of the day, that’s all it matters.

There’s a Saturday afternoon.

An array of long dresses and skirts mix-up with button-ups and printed ties on the bed, make-up and skin products all over the cabinet. The sun slowly lies down to a soft hue of orange that paints the bedroom space, and the off-beat singing coming from the bathroom makes you smile every now and then.

A coat of lipstick to the lips, mascara to the eyelashes. A well-placed hair pin to the side of your hair. Out of the bathroom Bucky gets, black suit and tie in place, not a wrinkle on sight to the white button-up shirt. The singing turns to a faint humming.

Short hair, trimmed beard. His blue eyes are alight. Positively beaming.

It’s just a few hours to go until the big event starts—Mr. and Mrs. Wilson anniversary, which they’re celebrating with one big ceremony to renew their vows with their children present. Bucky, much to Sam’s feigned dismay and Darlene Wilson’s stubborness, is now considered one of them.

In the very few opportunities you got to meet Darlene, she was nothing short of sweet to you and incredibly motherly to your boyfriend. Not much is needed to see how happy Bucky is to be participating in their day, and you can’t help but beam right back at him.

“Looking so handsome!” You grin, watching through the mirror as Bucky sits on the bed, shiny black shoes set on the floor. His lips are holding back a smirk. “I mean it, Bucky! This hair? I’m marrying you.”

At the words, Bucky looks up.

Between the Blip, his missions, your classes and whatnot, neither of you ever discussed the possibilities of a long-term future.

Have you both thought about it, though? Absolutely.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble.” Bucky sighs. Quickly settling into his shoes, a crooked smile curves up his mouth as he stands up, gentle fingers around your satin clad waist. “You’re so beautiful. I’m a lucky bastard, aren’t I?”

It feels like your brain instantly turns to mush over his words, and your tongue stumbles to find proper words to reply his sudden sweet outburst. Heat spreads through your neck and cheeks as you lean back against his chest, feeling Bucky’s arms wrap you completely with such warmth like home is supposed to feel.

Watching your reflections through the mirror, you can’t help but think how comforting the situation is, even if it can look silly to anybody else. How comforting is to see you with him, the changes, the little quirks that remain the same after a straight up mess.

How funny is it that you want to turn your little comment into reality?

How funny is it that Bucky wants that moment of certainty to freeze?

“You’ve got to help me with something.” You break the silence, smiling shyly before reaching out to the small jewelry box sitting on your make-up cabinet. A silver necklace with a studded little star is pulled out. “Please?”

Smart fingers wrap the necklace around your neck with ease, the touch of vibranium rising shivers to your skin as Bucky closes it with a little kiss pressed between your shoulder blades.

There’s that little moment of silence again until a sigh escapes from his lips, a beat of hesitancy rushing through his body before he’s fishing for the black box in his pocket. A box he’s been carrying for way too long now, just waiting for its buyer to build up the damn courage because that’s all it takes.

I mean it, Bucky! I’m marrying you.

“I’ve got something else for you to wear tonight.” Bucky says. Heart pounding violently through his chest, so much he thinks you might hear it, but voice sounding as light as ever under your curious eyes. “I—I’ve had it for a long time now. And I know it might not be the perfect moment but you just said you’d marry me.”

Turning around to face him, your mouth immediately falls open. Chest to chest, your eyes searching for his. And ss Bucky lifts the little velvet box and flips it open so, so easily with his metal thumb, your choked, disbelieved laugh fills the room.

The ring is beautiful.

No fancy stones, just a simple, silver band formed to wrap around a finger with its two ends meeting together on the top.

Both of you kept meeting each other over and over through accords, battles and sudden disappearances.

It’s meaningful enough to make your heart beat faster.

“You can’t be serious. Are you?” You ask dumbly, a silly smile soon growing on your lips as Bucky gives a playful glare. “You are. Holy shit, Bucky!”

“You aren’t sayin’ yes, baby doll.” Bucky jokes, starting to feel jittery with nerves despite a small grin. Under the anxiety and accent slip, he’s just loving to see how positively astonished you look. “I’m sweating under this suit and it won’t be good for—”

Red lips crash upon his in a rush, your fingers fisting the lapels of his suit so hard that Bucky almost stumbles on his feet, making him pull your body flush against his own. He’s sure your fingers are wrinkling his jacket just as much as his metal ones are wrinkling the delicate fabric of your dress. And your make-up, thank God, you’re wearing the smudge-proof lipstick.

There’s no time to breathe between quick, several pecks and a gasped but definitely excited reply.

“I am saying yes!”

There’s another Satuday afternoon.

A pair of booted feet walks through the tight hallway of the shoebox apartment, laughter completely filling the place as a pair of heeled feet bumps the wall in a funny noise.

The white sandals are a perfect match for the white mini dress, its hem flowing over very familiar thighs, showing a little too much because the position—or general space really, isn’t the best. Turns out that despite your skepticism, Bucky can carry you in bridal style through the cramped space. Even though, you can easily spot a stain in the back of his blazer because of a knocked vase. 

It doesn’t really matter.

As Bucky puts you down, your heels are kicked off and you immediately reach out to the memory board on the wall, pinning up a marriage certificate like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

When you turn around, Bucky is sitting by the edge of the bed just like one week ago, but now sans apprehension of an insecure man.

“We’re married!”

The gleeful tone of your words make him smile right away, pulling you closer with a gentle tug until you’re standing between his legs. Towering over him, your hands cup both of Bucky’s cheeks, thumbs brushing over the sharp, stubbly cheekbones. Your heart swells in your chest, happiness and love and calmness, because everything about the day really had been simple.

A city hall wedding with Sam, Wanda and Sam’s parents as witnesses, exactly a week after their own second wedding. Very simple and easy, as the decision of marrying each other had been.

“You’re officially a Barnes.” Bucky grins, hands brushing down the back of your thighs. Gentle fingertips under the hem of your dress, he silently urges you to sit on his lap. “Told ya, got me in trouble.”

“You say that as if you didn’t want to marry me.” You scoff playfully, wrapping your arms around his neck as settling down over him. “You can’t fool me. I totally noticed you were nervous back there.”

Not bothering to deny your words, Bucky shrugs. Even though he was nervous, it doesn’t really matter. Wrapped up in each other, surrounded by the quietness of the apartment, all he cares about is you.

A little kiss pressed to your neck.

“Well, you’d be nervous too if you were marryin’ the prettiest girl in the world.”

A laugh and a little kiss pressed to his nose.

“Well, I was nervous marrying the prettiest boy in the world.”

And then—Bucky’s lips are meeting yours in a soft kiss that swallows a sigh, hands steady and gentle around your waist as he dips down to the bed under your body. It feels like you’re both back at the ceremony again, high on your love and completely unaware of everything that isn’t each other. And he kisses you once, twice, three, four times.

Just enough to ground him, to remind him that this is what his life came to.

Don’t they say that after a storm, there’s always calm?

Yeah, well. This little shoebox apartment in the heart of Brooklyn.

This might be just it.

[goldenncherrybombb]

Adore You

The one where Harry gets lost and y/n tries to help

Series Masterlist 

Masterlist 

He’s late, again. Of fucking course he’s late! When the hell isn’t he? I love him, I do. But it’s time like these where she questions it nowadays. I don’t know where it went wrong. We were inseparable, so loving. We were perfect. But then it’s like a flip got switched. Harry’s always out in the studio, with friends, or at writing sessions, or meetings, or whatever the fuck else he has. We had a date planned tonight. We have had this date planned for a bloody month! And he’s an hour late. An HOUR.

I get up and leave, embarrassed with heated cheeks and a frown. I don’t know how much more I can take of this. First it was dinner with my mom, then it was a writing session that was mandatory and made me and everyone else waste our time because Harry was too hungover to show up, and so many more instances. I just, I don’t understand what happened. We barley talk in the day anymore, we used to talk for hours and now we say little to each other. Harry was so cuddly in bed, but now he turns his back.

I shove my key into the lock and twist it harshly, opening and then slamming the door. A note on the mirror above the small table with a dish for our keys, and other trinkets from traveling, caught her eye quickly. It read ‘be back later- h.’ Not even an ‘Xx’ HE ALWAYS DOES THAT.

Me not knowing why he’s suddenly being cold is making me crazy. I’m beginning to feel insecure and maybe think he thinks I’m ugly. But that wouldn’t make since because we had sex yesterday. Maybe he just plain out doesn’t like me and is pretending because he is trying to find a way to let me down easily. He’s probably so revolted by me he doesn’t even want to be friends.

I grab a pillow from the bed and throw it at the wall aimlessly while letting out a loud ‘fuck.’ I had a little anger fit, then I got sad and just wanted to cry and go back to a few months ago where they always went out, made songs together, went shopping, etc.

So she gets up and packs her bags. Thankful she never sold her house, but not thankful that it’s down the road from here. Only reason she kept the house was because it would be too much of a hassle to put on the market with her job and how much she travels. Plus it was one of her homes and she loved it. Somehow fitting all of her clothes into her suitcases. Then she got everything else into duffle bags and normal bags. She did leave some stuff behind, like a shirt, her favorite mug, and her perfume. The little things slipped her mind and all she cared about was Harry. He was always on her mind, will probably always be even though they won’t be together after today, or on a break. Y/n’s not sure what to tell him. She doesn’t want to break up with him. Not at all. But she can’t put herself through this, and she can’t put him through it either because whatever he has going on needs to be delt with, and y/n can only help so much. She has tried to get him of the black pit he has seemed to fall in. But nothing worked. And she knows from experience that no one can make you truly feel better than yourself. When she felt so damn lost in high school, and didn’t know who she was, what she wanted to do, how she was gonna get to her goal, she fell into a pit of sadness.

Everyone tried to help, but it seemed like nothing would. But then she got into music even more. She had already loved music before hand, already somewhat invested in it. But she wasn’t looking into it as something she would want to pursue. But then she learned how to play her first instrument, and it lead to another, and another, until she could make a band by herself. It all came naturally to her. Her fingers knowing where every note is as she didn’t even need sheet music to play a full song. Just needed to hear the beginning. And that brought her out if it, the girl had finally found out what she wanted to do after all. And her supporting friends and family all told her she would go somewhere today. And look where she is today! Writing her first album.

Once all her bags were in the car she cleaned up the house and laid on the bed, exhausted, she stared at the ceiling and got lost in her own thoughts. She didn’t know how long it had been but Harry was home and the sun was fully set. He didn’t even call out for her, didn’t say a word. She knew it was him because she could see him pull into the driveway.

“Hey.” She said when Harry walked in the room.

“Hello, why aren’t your keys in the bowl? Thought you weren’t home before I saw your car behind the house.” Because they are in my pocket, and I am so fucking scared to tell you what she was about to. Is what she thinks, but she replies calmly.

“Oh, I must’ve misplaced em.” She shrugs, trying her best to not show how nervous she was. He hums and goes into the bathroom. Y/n can see him from the bed and watches as he swings mouthwash in his mouth. “Harry, can I talk to you?” She questions timidly.

“Sure, give me a second.” She nods and looks down at her fingers, picking at her nails. Once he’s done he sits in front of her on the king bed.

“What’s wrong?” He questions, sounding worried.

“I don’t know how to even start a conversation like this.” She whispers brokenly, her voice catching towards the end as she already feels her eyes well up. “I love you Harry. But you are not the Harry I know.” She looks up slowly, his head hanging lower at his words, knowing shes right. “You have changed. And I know people change, and change can be good, but this isn’t. If you don’t like me anymore please spare me my breath and tell me.” He immediately shakes his head and immediately replies with a ‘that’s not true. ‘Course I like you.’ She grabs his hand in a moment of desperation and looks at him with a broken soul. “Then tell me what it is. Please. I can not do this anymore. It’s tearing me down, h. And I can not stand to see you hurt yourself. You don’t think I notice the taste of whiskey on your tongue? Gum doesn’t hide everything. I’m not saying you can’t drink I’m just saying it’s not making you feel better if that is why you are doing it. I don’t know what to do, Harry. I really don’t. You don’t ever show up to anything we have planned anymore, you rarely say I love you unless we are fucking, you just- you disappeared almost.” Tears stream down her face but she wipes them away harshly.

“I feel lost, y/n. So fuckin’ lost. I don’t know who I am anymo’” He has tears building in his eyes, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The first sob breaks from him when he begins to speak again. “I read everythin’ people say about me. I used to not, but I saw one bloody article on m’browser an’I clicked it, an’ then another and another. I got in my own head, got lost. And I think, ‘am I really the man they say I am?’ Its- it’s driving me mad I feel this way because I have everything I could ever want. I feel like I give everyone my all. But it’s never enough. They don’t know me, but yet they write these harsh things.”

“Harry, Prince Charming, please look at me.” She says quietly, tears streaming down her face. “Honey, do not give a damn about what they say. Because you are you at the end of the day. They only get to see a small snipped out of your day. Not the whole 24 hours. So fuck what they have to say!” Her voice raises some as she speaks passionately, always hating the tabloids. She sighs lightly and looks him in the eyes. “Know I love you so damn much. I will always love you. Always. You are always enough. We have been through so many things for so many years. You are my first love.” She speaks with a sniffle at the end, their hands intertwined. “I just- you need to find yourself. You have become someone I don’t know anymore, h. You need to work on you. Get in the right headspace. We need to take a break.” I whisper the last part after a brief pause and with a broken heart, not wanting to say the words, but needing to. They say you gotta let the ones you love go and now it’s my turn to do that. “I will always love you Harry. You were my first love. But how can you love me if you can’t love yourself? We have always told eachother one thing we will will never do, and that is hold the other back. I feel like I’m holding you back and I said I will let you go, and today is the day I am doing that. I can’t hold you back. There is so much more of your mind that neither of us have yet got to discover, find that, because once you do it’s beautiful. You need to get out there and see the world. Sure you have traveled everywhere, but you need to really see it. Get out of the big cities, find small shops you love. You need to find yourself, bub. I will be there, watching and helping when needed if you will allow me too. But for now, we need space. You have your career I have mine, and we can’t hold eachother back from that. ” Her hand goes on his cheek, him leaning into her touch. Both of them still have tears flowing down there face and stuffy noses, but neither care because both of them know this will be the last time they see eachother for awhile. She smiles at him one last time before standing and walking out of the room quietly.

“Please don’t go. I will change, promise yeh. Please, y/‘n. Let me adore and love you like it’s the only thing I will ever do.” his voice breaks as he speaks and sniffles in between. She cries harder when she hears him. He looks so sad and she looks the same. Both of them an emotional mess.

“We both know this is for the better.” She pauses for a second and closes her eyes to collect herself before opening them and looking back at him. “ I love you. Never forget that please. Never forget our friendship. I’m always here for you, together or not. This is not a goodbye, it’s a see you later.” Her hand slips from the door as Harry watches the love of his life walk always and he does nothing about it. Knowing it is better for her because his actions are hurting her and breaking her down and he couldn’t pay attention before to notice. He was furious at himself.

Once the door shut and her car drove down the driveway for the last time did he let himself truly sob. His face in the pillow as he wished he could take back everything he missed, all the times he was snippy, all of the bad.

[pressedinthepages]

Chapter 2: Expectations

Summary: After 30 years of walking the path alone, your heart has hardened over, but it seems there are a couple of cracks.

Series Masterlist

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24382063/chapters/59027686

Words: 1754

Warnings: not really any this time, little bit of sexism and swearing, but nothing extreme.

A/N: I know I’m a bit early with this one, but I’m so excited so I can’t wait XD This one’s a bit shorter, but I like where it ended so it’ll be a good setup for the next chapter :) enjoy! Also, the term 'fauntkin' is a medieval term of endearment, essentially meaning "young child."

The sun is high in the sky, a slight breeze stirring dust from the trail as you walk. You can feel eyes burning holes in the back of your armor as you approach the notice board. You’ve arrived in a sizeable town in Velen, almost as far east as Oxenfurt. The people here, you can tell, are well-fed and prosperous. Being this close to a big city tends to leave people with an extra bit of coin in their pockets, but it also tends to come with bigger problems. Sometimes it’s bigger, meaner contracts, or it’s stingy, uptight employers. Your leather skirt billows around your knees, and you are grateful for the lined trousers you wore underneath as the wind bit your nose. You keep the hood on your cloak up, not yet having a chance to figure out just how welcome you are here. 

1225. The year catches your eye from a slip of parchment on the board, glaring at you, taunting you behind a ruse of some poor sap looking for a lost ring. You think back, it’s been about thirty years since you left Kaer Morhen, and you’ve not been able to bring yourself to crawl back up those steps. You’d heard whispers among townsfolk about an attack, just a few years after you left on the Path. You had contemplated returning, feeling a wave of grief come over you as one of the last Wolves on the continent. 

But as you started making the trek towards the mountains, a sense of panic and dread building in your chest. That place had held you down, smothered you, taken everything that you had the potential to be and robbed it of you. It turned you into something not much more than the monsters you are paid to slay and almost killed you in the process. You often found yourself wishing that the damned place had actually finished the job and let you die in the Trials, let you slip from its grasp into the cold, dark earth.

Shaking the daydream away, you peer at the fluttering papers nailed to the board. Most were useless, people looking for misplaced trinkets or threatening their neighbors. However, there was one in the corner that drew your attention, mainly because of the big letters scrawled across the top: WITCHER NEEDED.

You scan the notice quickly, shoving it into your pack before briskly turning and striding towards the edge of town. The contract spoke of a “hoard of flying women, tits sagging in a most horrid manner.” The man who had posted the notice had directed the reader to come to his home, where he would tell them what they needed to know.

As you approach, you see a bearded man with two young children playing as he worked in a small garden. You cross into the yard, the children quieting with your arrival. You clear your throat, the man startling at the noise. He stands and turns to you, taking notice of the two swords on your back and the scar on your brow. 

“I’m here about the contract.” Your voice is even, decades of training and practice behind you to quell any emotion that may be conveyed in your tone. The man’s eyes quickly flick down and back up your body, seemingly confused by your existence. You’re used to it though, everyone is. His eyes settle back on the scar at your brow and it tingles, your hands fighting the urge to scratch at it.

Losing patience, you arch your brow and hold the parchment out to him. He glances down at it and clears his throat. 

“Well, miss, I’m not sure if this is something that you’d really be able to handle…” his voice trailing off as your golden eyes narrowed in disdain. 

“I can assure you,” you sneered, venom dripping from your tongue, “I am plenty capable of taking care of myself. Now, tell me more about what you saw.”

The man at least has the decency to flush, looking askance as he avoided your gaze. His name is Kasper, and as he weaves his story, you know exactly what the contract is asking. There is a dense forest at the base of the mountains where many people go to collect herbs and vegetables. But there is a new nest of “winged things, naked and smelling of rot,” and they attack anyone who ventures to the far edge of the forest. The man says there were about a dozen of them, all of them vicious. They scream and scratch, and they will steal any sort of jewelry or other shiny items with their victim. 

“Seems you’ve been burdened with a harpy nest,” and you can tell that the children are listening intently to every word. “I’d be willing to take care of this for you, but I would like to discuss payment.”

Kasper shifts, scratching the underside of his chin before sighing. “I’ve never seen a Lady Witcher before, but if you feel confident that you can do this…”

“I do, and I am no Lady. I am but a Witcher, one who is here and able to solve your problem.”

You discuss the payment, agreeing on a price that is a few more crowns than the notice had stated, and that you would receive payment upon providing proof of the job being finished. As you turn to leave, one of the children runs to your side. She can’t be more than five summers, and you are briefly reminded of your fever dream full of confusion and betrayal.

“Excuse me, Lady Witcher?” She tugs on the hem of your skirt just above your knee, pulling your attentions back to her. You feel the edge of your mouth turn up slightly, you’ve always been weak at the innocence of children. You stop and kneel, finding yourself at eye level with the little girl. Her younger brother is behind her, clasping onto the leg of his father and bashfully turning his head into it. The girl’s eyes are wide and full of life and joy, and you feel your heart clench for a moment. 

As you peer back at her with your bright eyes that burn with their intensity, you notice that you can’t smell fear. It’s a high, sour smell that permeates the air and follows you almost everywhere you go. But not here, not from this child. She only radiates comfort and trust, and grass. Your nose is especially sensitive to the smell of grass, twitching slightly with the effort to not sneeze onto the girl in front of you. 

“You gotta promise something,” the little girl says, swaying slightly as she speaks, already tired of staying still for too long.

You smile kindly, a movement that you’ve allowed yourself to relearn over the years. There’s not a lot behind it, but it’s better than the empty holes where your feelings used to be. “And what would you have me promise, fauntkin?”

“You gotta promise you’ll be careful, cause if you don’t who’s gonna take care of the scary bird ladies?” she exclaims indignantly. 

You blink in surprise, unsure of how to respond to that. You end up settling on “well, I’ve come back from every hunt I’ve gone on so far, so I have a pretty good feeling about this one.” 

She doesn’t seem convinced, her teeth worrying her lower lip. “And then what? What about when another monster comes here? Will you come back?”

“If you’d like for me to, I will gladly return,” you say, and before you can register what happens she throws her arms around your neck and you stiffen, unused to the blatant display of affection. But as she rests her head on your shoulder, you gently wrap an arm around her waist, returning the gesture as best as you can. Your legs are at an awkward angle and they begin to ache, but you wouldn’t move for all of the coin in the world. It’s been decades since you’ve felt such trust from another person, and you can’t let it go before it’s ready. It’s easy to imagine a life full of love like this, easy and warm.

The girl moves back, her mind wandering to far-off worlds with sunshine and happiness around every corner. You watch her go as you stand, your lungs feeling a bit too tight and your eyes watering just a bit. You turn and head towards the forest, feeling your heart harden back up with every step back into your life.

…

    The dwindling light from the sun casts rays through the leaves of the forest. They flash bright reds and yellows, precarious along the branches that dance on the breeze. The bright colors remind you of the approaching frost, and you decide that as soon as you complete this contract, you’ll move further south. The sooner you get there, the better, so that you can hopefully establish a presence in a town that would be willing to house you during the winter. 

You’re kneeling at a small stream that runs through a clearing in the heart of the forest. You’ve set up a small camp for the evening atop a hill behind you, and you followed the sound of trickling water in the hope that you may get (at least a little) clean. You’ve left your armor with your horse at the camp, leaving you in a light chemise and your trousers, your two swords still strung across your back. You rest your hands in the stream, the cool water cutting through your skin before embracing it, swirling and gliding through your fingers. You take a deep breath in, surrounding yourself with the tranquility of a quiet forest, smelling only the earth and the water and the animals that call this place their home.

The peace did not last long, however, as the wind carried the sound of light, bounding hoofbeats followed closely by heavy, thundering footfalls. You stand, scenting the air as you move. You’re upwind, and all you can gather from what smells you can catch is that they’re alive. No shit, you think to yourself, unsheathing your steel sword and swinging it around your wrist to grip it. The threats are far too close for you to be able to rush back to your camp, so you face the direction they are coming from head-on. You raise your sword across your chest to strike just as the first ‘living thing’ bursts through the thicket into the clearing.

[wookieewrites]

Lootkeeper

The adventurers were bloodied and beaten when they staggered into my chambers. They generally were, the ones who made it this far. I could never help myself wondering which of them would make it, who was going to go down hard, who would end up sacrificing themselves for the others.

You do this long enough, and the wondering just creeps in.

The very tone of the broken fortress changes when adventurers enter. Nightmares stir from their sleep, traps stretch their necks and the watchers peer out into the gloom. There are things out there with eyes that see clearly through the rain – and there’s always rain.

So I take my traditional place, don the armour I wore on my own journey through these ruins, and wait for them. I rest my hands on the pommel of my sword, embedded in the cracked flagstones where I buried it long ago.

The five of them wearily ready their weapons, stringing themselves into a loose formation. There’s a pair of magic wielders, of wildly different disciplines to judge my their clothing. They hover towards the middle, their fingers aglow with untold powers waiting to come at their beckon. Their rearguard hefts a hammer at me, and I strongly suspect that she’s going to hurl it at the slightest provocation.

The three frontliners bear the brunt of the damage this crew has sustained so far, as per usual. My eyes flick from the tip of a halberd to a gash on the man’s face, watching as it slowly knits itself together.

On the right, a lightly armoured woman with a determined set to her shoulders gives me a more appraising look than most. She’s probably not the planner of the group, but at a guess she might be the face. The bruises suggest that talking hasn’t done her all that much good in here, which I could have told her much earlier.

“If you just let us pass, we don’t have to fight,” she says, barely trying to disguise the bone weariness that suffuses her voice.

“Why do you insist on trying that every time Mariella?” her partner groans, hefting his scimitar.

“Let you pass? That would kind of defeat the point of me, don’t you think?” I ask. You might think they were too exhausted to appreciate my humour, and you would be right. But I get bored sometimes. Everyone does.

“You talk?” one of the magic wielders asks. I pin her as a necromancer. Oh, probably masquerading as a cleric of some nature or life god, but a necromancer nevertheless. The illusions are gone by this point.

“Last I checked. Though chances are I’m not the first being that can talk you’ve encountered on your way here. Not everything that can speak is friendly – or intelligent.”

“It has a point,” the other magic wielder says. “Remember that tree thing?”

“The treeyaeya is not particularly companionable,” I agree.

“You can say that again-“ he cuts off as Mariella smacks the flat of her rapier against his arm.

“Why would it tell us that?” she challenges.

“They, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh,” the hammer-thrower says, lowering her hammer. “I’ve never met something that cared about pronouns that wouldn’t monologue before attacking me.”

“I’ve never felt more insulted and more seen at the same time,” I reply.

“Are you going to attack us,” Mariella asks, looking more curious than weary.

“That really depends on if you’re going to attack me. But I wasn’t planning on it, no.”

The magic fades from the mages’ fingertips, and all but one of them sheath their weapons.

“Come on, Vanagan. If they were going to start a fight, they’d have done it by now. I mean, look at the size of that sword.”

“Much too big to be practical,” I agree, taking my hands from the pommel and resting them by my sides. “Totally stuck in the flagstones, too. It’s mostly just for show.”

Vanagan, the halberdier, finally relaxes. He pulls his dented helm from his head and rests it on a hidden hook on his shoulder. I guess his hair is usually coiffed, but right now it looks as dishevelled as the rest of him. Not bad looking, all things considered.

“What are you doing here, then, if you’re not going to fight us?” the necromancer asks.

“You’re almost at the top now,” I explain, “and quite frankly you’ve been through a lot to get this far. I’m here to give you a little rest and some kind words of encouragement.”

Most of them seem happy with that, and a couple sit down on the flagstones. They look about ready to sleep. A frown creases Mariella’s face, as if she doesn’t quite believe me. I shed my helmet, crusty old thing that it is, and reveal my lined face to them all. I grin.

“Oh, and to arm you all for the fight ahead, that is.”

They leave their exhaustion in my antechamber, as I lead them into the armoury. The forge and the workshop are tertiary to their concerns, and there are secrets in there that aren’t mine to share. Not that they have much time to use them at the moment.

The second greatest joy that I have these days, after messing with adventurers who come to face me, is the looks on their faces as they spin on their heels, staring up at the towering racks of tools, weapons, armour and trinkets that fill my armoury.

“What’s the catch?” the hammer thrower, Hylie, asks. I already like her to-the-point attitude.

“Take a piece, leave a piece,” I say.

“Equal value?” Mariella’s partner, Bykar, interjects. “Alright, I might be able to swap everything I have for this gold spoon then.”

“That spoon can turn any liquid into pure magical energy. Charges mages up like a lightning strike.”

Bykar puts the spoon back hurriedly, as if he worried it would break on him.

“No, not equal value. For any piece of gear you leave behind, you can take a piece of gear from here. A whole suit of armour for a single knife, if you wish. But you must leave behind one more item than you take.”

“Are they all enchanted? Any why one more?” Trudy the necromancer asks, looking more excited by the minute.

“Every one. And you have to leave more than you take, so the armoury can grow.”

“I could have told you that,” Vanagan scoffs, “it’s a typical deal with these kinds of types. Let me guess – you somehow use our attachment to the items to fuel the magic that makes them worth so much more in the end?”

His companions stare at Vanagan in unconcealed disbelief.

“He’s quite right. Though, it’s less about fuel and more that the technique involves evoking an enchantment from the item’s history. Chances are you’re the most significant part of that history though, given that you brought them here. There’s a lot of nuance to this kind of enchantment, but I doubt you have much time to discuss it. Your Quest and all.”

Vanagan looks smug at being right, and the rest of the group seem keen to move on from anything that might cause their friend to start crowing about his intelligence.

“Where do you want the things we’re trading?” Hylie asks. I motion towards a series of broad, flat silver trays.

The group splits up to hunt through the vast stock of treasures available to them.

This part of the process is another one that fascinates me – the way that different people choose to approach it. I watch as Byker slowly strips himself of every piece of equipment that he has with him. The battered armour, his sword, shield and a handful of minor magical trinkets that he’d clearly accumulated of the course of their venture into the fortress. He lays each out, and counts them, trying to make sure that he has a fair number. When he seems satisfied with the count, he looks up at me and I nod, accepting the total that he has calculated.

Then he disappears into the stacks, combing through as much of the armoury as he can make it through. I spot him pick out a glittering suit of armour that can blind his enemies in a fight and a solid wooden round shield whose crest is almost imperceptible beneath the blood that has stained it. The latter is infused with the fury of a dragon, and I’m not even sure what the full effects of the shield would be when bonded.

On the other hand, Mariella doesn’t leave a single thing on the trays. Instead, she prowls the pathways between the stacks, her eyes running over every item she sees but not staying for longer than a moment on any until she spies a rapier, much like her own, with a dark emerald embedded in its pommel. She draws the weapon, and feels some part of its power brush up against her mind, whispering of the things that she could do with it if she leaves here with it.

Mariella walks back over to me, takes off her necklace and unsheathes her well-worn rapier, placing them on the tray in front of her. Without looking at me, she buckles the enchanted sword to her side, and returns to scanning the stacks. Each time she returns, she has another item in hand, and leaves something of hers in exchange.

The lot of them waste little time in assessing the tastiest morsels of the armoury, and in almost no time at all I can tell that they’re mentally preparing themselves for the slog ahead. It’s usually not far, from my chamber to the throne room, but those last few encounters can really test a party’s mettle.

I won’t be bored, when they’re gone. They’ve left the better part of the loot that they entered with, so I have a few solid days of enchanting work ahead of me, as well as some extra, lengthier steps with some of the gnarlier enchantments.

It will be quieter, though.

“Is that everything?” I ask.

“Not quite,” Mariella replies. “Do you have any tips? For what lies ahead?”

This is a smart question, and one that far too many groups don’t think to ask.

“You’ve a big group. I can tell you learned the painful way not to keep too close together, to avoid blasts or anything that might chain. The throne room will force you to unlearn that lesson, if it doesn’t take you out first. Make two self-sufficient subgroups, and be ready to split apart and regroup at a moment’s notice. Dividing attention between the two groups will keep both alive. When your foe starts to gloat, throw your opening volley and hit hard – but make sure you keep a solid reserve. You’ll want to be able to match your opener with another coordinated volley about halfway through. The tricks that will be pitted against you differ each time, but you’ll be able to tell when they’ve all been burned through because the gloating will turn to desperate, brutal fighting. That’s when you throw everything you have out, and whittle whatever’s left away.

If you win, and I hope you do – don’t rest. Other things will come crawling out to try and take your prize from you. They’re not much of a threat, but if you’ve let your guard down they could overwhelm you.

That’s all I remember. Best of luck.”

They absorbed my advice solemnly, and I hoped that enough of it would help them in the long run. I tried never to speak to anything I could not know, and the exact nature of the challenges ahead were unreliable at best. Besides, very little made its way back down the fortress this way, so I rarely learned anything more.

“When we win, we’ll come back through here. Free you from this.”

I shook my head.

“No. I chose to stay here, to work in these chambers for the empowerment of folks like yourself. It will be a difficult enough fight for you, even with the tools I have provided. Without me, it might be years before the fortress is bested.

It is a lonely lot, here, but I could not ask for more fulfilling work.”

At that, they left, bravely facing the chambers ahead. Their spirits had been close to breaking, but now they were renewed.

A figure stirred in the shadows.

IT IS DONE THEN?

“They will fight you at the peak of their strength, lord of this tower. If you best them-“

WHEN

“When you best them, they will nourish your broken soul, and feed the very roots of your power. The fortress may stand for many years on their strength alone.”

GOOD. IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG SINCE I HAD A TRUE CHALLENGE. IT IS A SHAME THAT MORE OF THEM DO NOT OFFER THEIR SOULS TO SAVE THEIR COMPATRIOTS, AS YOU ONCE DID.

I grind my teeth, but say nothing.

WORK WELL, ETERNAL ARMOURER. YOU MAY YET EARN YOUR FREEDOM.

“You may yet a match for your wretched power.”

It fades from my awareness, returning to its physical form to prepare for the challenge. And I am left to wonder, again, whether I am a thorn in that monster’s side, or a chef preparing its every meal to perfection.

[susanoosama01]

Midam Headcanons part 1

Michael decides to stick around on Earth with Adam. He eventually gets a seperate vessel but neither can get used to the feeling. Adam wakes up in the middle of the night, calls out to Michael in his head and panics when he realises that Michael's not there. Michael denies it but he also feels weird if he looks in the mirror and doesn't see Adam there. In the end, they share a bed and keep each other company.

Michael sleeps sometimes. Not much but he still does. When he wakes up warm and cozy with Adam's limbs tangled with his own, he fakes sleep for a few more minutes because Adam just CAN'T wake the precious, cutie angel and he knows it.

He once disabled Adam's alarm to keep him there longer. It became a habit after that and in the end, Michael the first Archangel to come to life was sent to faux the attendance sheet of an 8 a.m. Biology class by a furious, stomping teen and he buys cookie flavoured ice cream on the way back to go with his kicked puppy look that he learned from a cheesy, evening run romance series.

When Adam is sick, he is spoiled with everything he could ever want. Like a whole tour ship in his name at first. Slowly, Michael learns that a bowl of soup and a good movie with him is enough for the teen.

Adam teaches Michael that he doesn't need to buy his love and respect. They don't do that in the Milligan House. They never did. Not when Kate was still alive, not when John was around. And they never will.

Michael likes the house bare, spacy and aired out so he opens all the windows, puts vases and decorations in the drawers, shoves the throw pillows in cupboards and hides every small trinket scattered around the house. The only thing he doesn't touch is the framed pictures of Adam and himself on the shelves and tabletops.

Adam insists that Michael should do things the 'human way' so when he forgets a book or assignment Michael runs to his classes to deliver them.

Though Adam likes being spoiled with angel magic now and then. Like when Michael makes his laptop type everything on its own straight from Adam's thoughts.

Adam makes Michael try new food much like how one feeds a baby different mashes every day. So far, Michael likes carrots, strawberries, white chocolate and ice cream. He hates brocoli and pepper. He is okay with everything else.

Adam washes the dishes while Michael dries and puts them away.

Michael once put liquid dish soap on Adam's fries because he thought everything in the kitchen in colorful bottles were those sauces Adam loves.

On stormy nights, when Adam can't sleep, he asks for stories. Michael talks about all kinds of amazing stuff like the creation of the stars, how God decided which animal looked how, how angels were assigned their duties one by one, how many species that aren't known today actually existed or how dinosaurs were actually a toddler Gabe's toys which he dropped to Earth after a temper tantrum. Rarely, he talks about his home back in Heaven and his childhood with his brothers. His voice trembles a little as he remembers the old days. Especially as he talks about the most beautiful little boy ever who had pure white wings that reflected light and who was destined to bring Gods light in the universe and into everyone's hearts.

When Lucifer comes back, Adam is the first to extend a hand to him. He talks to Michael, shouts a little at some point and manages to convince him to at least hear his brother out. Because he isn't too different from that little boy Michael hides in a corner of his heart, locked and sealed away as a fragile reminder of the past. He has done things he needs to amend. But when even the God himself turns his back on them, Michael is all he has and he is all Michael has.

The two archangels make up eventually. Winchesters want to use Lucifer against God. He refuses. Thus that spare room at the back of the flat finds its owner. The first night with a storm, they hear something breaking in Lucifer's room. Turns out the sound of thunder is exactly like how God sounded on the day he fell. So Michael turns on all the lights, Adam makes hot cocoa and they marathon ATLA.

Lucifer ADORES Adam. He didn't want to admit it at first but the kid is cool. Because a) He trashtalks the Winchesters with Lucifer. b) He obviously has a leash on Michael, commander of Heaven's army and it is hilarious. c) He is actually good for Michael. He taught Michael who had turned his heart into a stone long ago how to love again. d) They are PUBG buddies.

When Gabriel returns, he is surprised enough to accuse Adam of whichcraft when he sees his two older brothers cooking Adam's favorite pancakes side by side, dueting Let It Go.

Adam buys Michael toys when he learns he didn't have any other than the wooden practise swords. Michael refuses to be treated like a baby at first but he becomes obsessed with the remote control police car with lights and sirens for two days when Adam shows him how to play with it.

They build an actual grave for Kate. Michael visits and asks for permission before he asks Adam if- maybe they could officiate the bond they have?

Other angels despise Adam at first as he stole their leader. Eventually, they learn their lesson when Michael roasts a few who tried to abduct Adam. Somewhere along the way, he befriends them too. Some just drop by randomly and Adam welcomes them on the dinner table eventhough he can't make them eat.

Lucifer doesn’t like crumpled spaces. It takes a hell lot of effort to get him to ride a car.

Michael is great at poker but loses UNO everytime.

Michael is quite funny actually. Only Adam gets his sense of humor though. They have inside jokes that no one else laughs at. It might also have something to do with Michael's shark like smile which creeps even Lucifer out.

Adam massages Michael's scalp when he has a headache from all the whinig angels.

After they defeat God Lucifer and Micheal become co-rulers of the universe.

Lucifer makes up with Jack. The nephilim is actually very alike to his eldest uncle with his eating habits and pure power. Their wings are almost the same.

Gabriel and Lucifer threaten Michael with calling Adam when he refuses something they want because Adam is almost always on their side.

In the end, Adam makes up with his own bfothers. Michael holds his hand all the way to the bunker through all the nervousty.

When Adam graduates Sam, Dean, Eileen, Castiel, Lucifer, Gabriel and Michael are on the front row clapping. He runs to Michael who in turn throws his arms around him and softy kisses him on the head.

They console some angels, demons and other creatures after God is beaten as they spent over a millenia in Hell and they want to create a better world.

Adam becomes a doctor at Kate's hospital.

Part 2

[redfoxline]

Thanks to @whumptober2020 for their hard work at organizing the challenge! I’m so excited to participate this year! =D

Whumptober Day 01-02

Theme: ‘Let’s hang out sometimes’ + ‘In the hands of the enemy’

Prompts: ‘Waking up restrained’ +  ‘Kidnapping’

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV

Word count: 2264

Summary: Prompto opened his eyes to the sight of blood spots on his white shoes. The very same pair of sneakers that he had begged Cor to purchase for him as a gift at the beginning of the school year. Cor, who was neither his father nor his foster parent, but who looked after him like a godfather anyway. Cor, who abhorred spending unnecessary funds on trinkets, but ended up paying a pair of shoes a third of his wage just because they were trendy and Prompto had wanted to look cool. Barely one semester in, and Prompto got them ruined.

Prompto opened his eyes to the sight of blood spots on his white shoes.

The very same pair of sneakers that he had begged Cor to purchase for him as a gift at the beginning of the school year. Cor, who was neither his father nor his foster parent, but who looked after him like a godfather anyway. Cor, who abhorred spending unnecessary funds on trinkets, but ended up paying a pair of shoes a third of his wage just because they were trendy and Prompto had wanted to look cool. He had made him promise to take good care of it, at the very least, because it was useless to spend this amount of money in mere shoes if they didn't last the whole school year at least.

Barely one semester in, and Prompto got them ruined.

His internal laments were cut out by pain. Like a wake-up call, his brain finally registered that he was sitting in a very uncomfortable chair. Around him, nothing but plain, dented walls of some sort of warehouse. The door was locked, a brand new padlock glistening in the beam of sunlight.

Fear rose in his throat like bile.

Prompto lurched against the ropes binding him, straining his neck to get a better look through the window. He could barely see the top of some skyscrapers further away, and the sky. Was he that high? Was he in some kind of abandoned parking lot?

There was a district full of this kind of building near the checkpoint entrance of Insomnia. Prompto had never set foot in this area. It was rumoured to be haunted by the old people in the Niff District. Noctis had promised him it only was an urban legend, that it was empty because no one wanted to build a house this close to the gates, where fights would happen should deamons or niffelheim army sneak past the Wall.

Noctis! He smiled at the thought of this friend. Didn't Noctis explain to him what to do in case of kidnapping?

"Don't provoke them. Keep a low profile and give them what they want until rescue comes to get you," Noctis had recited in an obviously bored sigh. "Look at them and your surroundings. Try to gather as much information as you can. If you can communicate, try to give as much information as possible about your location. If they leave you behind, keep hidden until sunlight and get to the nearest place with a phone. Only act against them if it's your last resort."

That wasn't very useful to him, Prompto thought. !there was no one to make demands. Not that he could grant any, anyway.

He tried to move but the chair had been screwed down to the concrete. Grumbling in defeat, he looked around for another option, until his eyes found the door and its padlock again.

Wait. How come he could see the padlock? Shouldn't it be outside?

A wave of dread ran through his body and made his skin crawl.

If it was inside, it could only mean that, whoever had taken him there, had locked the both of them in.

After a long minute where terror froze him into place, he tried to turn around. A large wood board had been screwed on the back of the chair, preventing him to fully see what was behind him. He craned his neck as much as he could, his eyes turned so far back he felt they would just pop out of his head, he managed to glimpse at a tinted mirror. From the look of it, Prompto imagined it was large enough to cover most of the wall.

His stomach twisted. If there was a door to access the other side, it probably was right behind him.

How many were they? Were they watching him? He could imagine their stares burning his neck through the wood board.

The sob escaping his lips took him by surprise. He valiantly tried to blink back the tears but they fell anyway, tracing burning tracks on his cold cheeks. The empty room suddenly felt freezing, extracting another full-body shiver out of him. He didn't dare to speak up. Whatever they wanted, Prompto couldn't give it to them. Not that he would have wanted to, anyway.

They probably expected him to be able to provide information about Noctis, he realized.  Maybe they would even ask for ransom. His face had appeared enough times in tabloids, trotting along with the Prince, for them to understand Noctis would go to great length to retrieve him.  Too bad for them. The only information he knew about Noctis that was public was his love for fishing and tomato-flavoured chips. No one would have been stupid enough to let a civilian like him get access to security data. If there were in for the money, though, he wasn't sure about what would happen. Certainly, King Regis wouldn't let an underage civilian,  especially a friend of his son, in the hands of his kidnappers. He wouldn't pay, though. If he sent the Kingsglaive, Prompto wasn't sure what would happen to him in the crossfire.

Hope bloomed in his chest when his internal voice of reason - which has suspiciously started to sound like Ignis as of late - reminded him they could do it for intimidation. To prove they could get close to the Prince. Anti-Crowners. They would have left him there.

Metal scratching the concrete dashed all hope away. Someone had opened a door.

Someone had opened the door right behind him.

His world went spinning and stopped whirling at the same time. There was nothing to feel but the utter terror blossoming in his belly when the man came into vision.

"Prompto Argentum." He knew what fearing for his life meant, now that his own name had left the man's lips. "Good afternoon, kid. You slept for a very long time. My buddies and I were wondering if we might have roughened up you a bit too much."

The blood on his shoes, Prompto realized. It came from somewhere, of course. He felt bad overall, but no place hurt more than another, so he assumed they hadn't beaten him up that much. It wasn't like he remembered how they got him there.

"Do you know why you're there, Argentum?"

He shook his head. The man grinned and snickered.

"He doesn't know why he's here! What an unassuming boy!". His hands plumped on Prompto's shoulders, all amused attitude vanished from his face. "Are you serious?"

Prompto couldn't get a word out, but that didn't seem to matter to the man. He turned back, leaving Prompto with a bad case of trembling knees, and started rambling.

"What a joke. He doesn't know!" The coldness of the man's glare would have been enough to pin Prompto down to his damned chair if he hadn't been tied up already. Prompto had seen Coeurls on Lucian Geographic who looked less murderous than his perpetrator.

"You're the bestie of the Prince and you don't have a clue what business we could have with you, kid?" A raucous laugh that didn't sound right ricocheted against the walls.

"Guess what? You're a lucky one. We're not bad guys. We don't care about the Prince. He is a kid too, and we're not child murderers. No need to be scared of us. We just want information about a man, and you happen to know a lot about him. Right, Argentum?"

Names and faces flashed through his mind. Who could he know that would have that much importance to that man? He didn't know the King personally, hadn't met him yet. Neither did he know Gladio's dad. The man probably didn't mean Ignis, because even if Iggy was the future Chamberlain, he wasn't one yet, and anyway he was barely legal so he didn't have time to do anything some crazy old man would want to...

"Seems like the Immortal is quite fond of you."

What?

"The Immortal?" He heard himself whisper, bewildered.

"Yes, the Immortal. Fancy that you know him. We've been tracking the little Prince for a while just to catch him. Seems like a busy man. Even if he's the head of the bloody royal security, we never saw him in a mile radius of the prince."

The man laughed and squeezed Prompto's shoulder. Hard.

"And here you come! The Immortal never visits the Prince, but Uncle Cor sure wouldn't miss the chance to take his dear nephew shopping, Imma right? Or are you his son, maybe?"

"I'm not. I'm really not!" He insisted, feeling the man digging his fingers deeper into his shoulder, making him wince in pain.

"Sure thing you aren't, kid. Why would the Immortal spend his time with you then?"

"I swear I'm not! I'm niff! The Crownsguards took me back in Insomnia when my parents were killed in Gralea!"

His pleas only made the man angrier.

"Likely story, eh? Someone like him wouldn't spend so much time with you if you weren't linked somehow."

A series of impatient knocks on the tinted mirror interrupted him.

"OK, kid. I just have a few questions about daddy dearest." If he ever made it out alive, Prompto would never laugh at B-Movies lines ever again - in real life those were downright terrifying to hear.

"Where does the Marshal live?"

Where did-Where did Cor live?

The walls of his apartment were painted with a light yellow. In the evening, the living room gleamed in the golden light.  Being perched on the 32nd floor, it felt like being nestled in a cocoon nest, unreachable and above the clouds. Prompto had stayed the night a few times, whenever Mrs Argentum had to go away and needed him to be watched and every time he had managed to snatch a handful of amazing sunsets snippets. It didn't hurt Cor hid a fantastic collection of photography books in his office and could make a killer paella.

It seemed crazy people wouldn't know where it was situated. As far as Pormpto knew, the location wasn't a state secret. He wasn't an important person either. No matter what Noctis said, Cor wasn't exempted from following the rules. If the location of his apartment was deemed sensitive information, Prompto would never have been allowed up there.

"I don't know," he heard himself say, anyway.

"You don't know?"

"I don't know," he repeated, feeling a bit more sure of himself despite the tremors of his voice. "I suppose he has an apartment in the Citadel or something."

Next thing he registered was pain.

The punch would have sent him flying if the chair hadn't been screwed onto the ground. His vision turned blurry from the tears and he could hear the man yelling and yelling, but could not concentrate enough to understand what he was saying.

"Think you're funny, little shit? Think this is a joke?!"

"Calm down Dan." A new voice piped in. "Not gonna help if he can't answer."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"N-No." He kept his eyes on the ground.

A kick to his knee tore a cry from his throat. Finger dug hard at his jaw, forcing his chin up.

"For a Niff you're quite loyal, aren't you?" He shoved him back, dirty nails scratching Prompto's cheeks. "Perfect. Then if you don't know where he lives, you can tell me where he works, right?"

"The-The Citadel?"

"And how does he get his orders?"

"By phone -I think he has some by the phone. the secured stuff. And - hum, he gets summoned by the King sometimes."

Wasn't it common knowledge? Or was trying to coerce some other information from him with those questions? He hoped not. Had he revealed sensible information?

"This number...is it his secure phone, or his personal mobile."

A screen was pushed under his nose - Prompto hadn't even noticed the other guy walking in! - with Cor's name flashing right at him. Despite the new crack on said screen, he immediately recognized his own phone.

"It's...I don't know. I've never asked, "he stammered. "I think it's his personal phone?"

"Does he usually pick up right away when you call him, or does he call you back?"

The new man spoke with a heavy accent, Lucian accent. His calm demeanour was throwing Prompto off. The violence and the rage of the other man, that was what Prompto expected from a kidnapper. What was up with this guy? And what kind of questions were these?

"I- we - I mostly text him and he calls me back."

They couldn't do anything with that kind of information, right?

Wrong.

Wrong, he realized, when the new guy threw a punch and took a picture of his crying face.

Wrong, he realized, when he made a show of tapping the 'send' button. The tiny arrow icon flashed blue a few times before the picture was sent to Cor.

Wrong, wrong, wrong wrong...

Seconds grained like sand into an hourglass, stretching as they fell, until the screen lighted up back to life, displaying the text as 'read'.

Immediately his phone started vibrating.

He didn't need to see the ID to know who was calling. The cruel smile spreading on the new guy's face was telling enough. Before he could do or say anything, though, the two men left and snapped shut the door behind them. He strained his ears but quickly gave up. Walls of concrete didn't let pass many sounds, let alone distinct conversation.

With nothing but fear and uncertainty for entertainment, he went back to staring holes at his bloody shoes.

[junie-bugg]

Prospects and Propriety - Chapter Two

Summary: Everlark Jane Austen AU

Katniss Everdeen and her younger sister Prim are the adopted daughters of Mr. Haymitch Abernathy, a wealthy man with no biological heirs. By the rules of Panem society, an older sibling must be married before the younger can wed. In a time when women have no means of making their own living, marriage is the only way for Katniss to save her sister from destitution and set her up for a happy marriage of her own. Katniss sets her sights on Mr. Gale Hawthorne, a wealthy man who just moved to Whitley and who seems to have his eye on her. But what of the poor baker’s boy who once took a beating to save her life?

Read here on Tumblr or on my AO3 account: izzacrosswriting

Warning: I do plan on this series getting a lil smutty. There will be graphic depictions of violence, sex, and possibly death. I’m still working everything out:)

Nature ambiance(s):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UZ9uyQI3pF0&t=1694s

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUjUhZ1Yy7Y

Music:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQbx-OkfN-M

(If you want to listen to this song on Spotify it's called Symphony No.5 in C Sharp Minor: 4. Adagietto (Sehr Iangsam))

Word Count: 3125

Chapter Two

Prim and I have the next day off of lessons. We’ve been homeschooled ever since we came to live with Haymitch, but the weekends are saved purely for whatever we see fit to fill them with. For me, that’s mostly hunting and being out in the woods, unless the weather is bad, and sometimes not even then. 

If I decide to stay at home I usually lounge around with a book and see what Prim is up to. It’s mostly knitting, dress-up, or playing with the ugly cat Haymitch let her keep a few years back. Prim named him Buttercup, claiming that his matted, ruddy coat matched the bright yellow of the flowers she so adored. I had wanted to drown the thing in a bucket when we caught him stealing scraps from the kitchen, but Haymitch had laughed, even picked the thing up by the scruff of his neck and shook him around. 

“Look at this little guy, sweetheart. He’s a survivor. We can’t kill him!” He had placed the dirty, mewling kitten into Prim’s arms and the thing had hissed at me. I was worried he’d give Prim some kind of disease but he never did. I don’t feel gratitude towards him though. Only suspicion. It could still happen. 

When I want to be alone I go to my greenhouse. Really it’s Prim’s and my greenhouse, but ever since she found maggots in the compost pile nearly two years ago, she hasn’t stepped foot in there.  The greenhouse is small, maybe a third the size of my bedroom, but it’s peaceful. Especially when it storms and I can hear every hollow beat of the raindrops on its glass roof. It’s situated on the edge of the grounds by the tree line that morphs into the large forested hill behind Victor Greene, Haymitch’s estate. Over the years I’ve planted herbs and flowers and medicinal plants I’ve found on my journeys into the woods. The plants do well here in the rows of dark soil I’ve fortified with compost and fertilizer. The whole place smells of earthy rot and there’s something about how sunlight scatters lazily through the frosted windows that calms me. There’s a nook on the far side of the greenhouse, past all the plants, where I’ve scattered some quilts and pillows on a wide triangular window ledge. It’s a perfect place to read or sleep. Or sing. 

This is the only place where I let myself sing. I don’t even do it in the woods, always afraid someone else taking a stroll will hear me or that I’ll scare away game. Ever since Prim and I were placed under Haymitch’s care, really ever since our dad died, I refuse to sing in front of others. Maybe it’s because I’m shy and I don’t like people listening to my voice swelling and breaking on the high notes. Or maybe I’m lying to myself and I don’t sing in front of others because it’s too painful to remember a time when my life was filled with music. Mountain aires and lullabies and love songs, all sung by my father. I guess I don’t like breaking apart when there’s an audience. But when I’m alone I can shatter beneath the notes for a time, before I’m needed back up at the house. 

Today, however, instead of knitting or playing hide and seek in the gardens, Prim has informed me she wants to walk to the village. “You need new ribbons for the ball!” She squeaks as I button up her light pink dress from behind. We have servants available who help us dress or bathe or brush our hair but I always like helping Prim myself. She looks like a tiny little princess with her frilly dress and her curls pulled back with a pearl white ribbon. In contrast, I look plain in a forest green frock and my light brown shawl. 

“I told you, Prim. I’m not going.” I struggle with the last button. Prim has been going through a growth spurt and soon she’ll be too big for this dress. I feel sad, watching my little sister growing up so fast. 

“I heard Mrs. Winthrop and Ms. Trinket talking and they said you had to go,” She’s grinning so hard I can see the slight gap between her two front teeth. “Because Mr. Hawthorne is going to be there.” 

Ah, yes. My supposed husband-to-be. So even Prim has heard about Ms. Trinkets’ ridiculous arrangements. A man with that much money has his pick of the litter when it comes to choosing brides. I’m not ugly, but I’m no exquisite beauty either. Not like some of the girls I see around Whitley. I have no fortune of my own, really no status either besides being Haymitch’s ward and that will go up in smoke the second he dies. Most likely Mr. Hawthorne will look right through me and move on. But the news that I’m being forced to attend the public ball worries me. The whole village will be there. Including him. The baker’s boy. 

Maybe some new ribbons aren’t such a bad idea. 

We turn down an offer for the carriage and instead walk along the main road into Whitley. My boots have barely brushed the cobblestone sidewalks when Prim is dragging me into the seamstresses’ shop. The dressmaker, Cinna Ludgate, and the tailor, I think her name is Portia Peever, both turn to welcome us. Prim tells Mr. Ludgate about my need for new ribbons and in a flash he pulls down the display from the ceiling, winking at me as he walks back to the counter. 

There are so many to choose from. Streams of all colors flutter between my outstretched fingertips like butterfly’s wings. I see ribbons of frilly lace, satin, velvet, and even silk. My eyes land on a simple, white cloth ribbon with a delicate embroidered lavender pattern. I hold it up for Prim’s inspection and she declares I have to buy two in case I manage to get one dirty before the ball. 

I’ve just handed Mrs. Peever the money for the ribbons when the bell over the door rings. In walks Ms. Delly Cartright, one of Prim’s closest friends, and her older sister, Ms. Marianne Cartright. Their father is the village shoemaker, so they’re well known and well-liked by almost everybody. Delly is Prim’s age which gives them plenty to talk about. Prim grabs a hold of Delly and begins showing her the latest shipment of buttons Mr. Ludgate has displayed. 

Marianne is one year younger than me but we’ve never exchanged more than simple pleasantries. I dread small talk but from my personal experience, a trip into town wouldn’t be deemed official without at least one awkward encounter. 

“Are you coming to the ball, Ms. Everdeen? You missed the last one,” Marianne asks. She’s absolutely gorgeous, with big, blue doe eyes and a pouty mouth. Her nose is small and her figure slender. She is what they call a “country belle” in Town. I know at least five love songs written about girls like her. I expect in a few years Prim will grow to be one herself. 

“The dancing was splendid. I do hope you’re coming next week,” She continues.

I hold up my ribbons in response. “My tutor Ms. Trinket won’t let me miss it.” I force my mouth into a smile. 

“Oh,” Marianne’s eyes have settled on my ribbons. They’re probably a tad dull for her taste seeing as there were velvets and silks to choose from, but I like the simple flower design. The white cloth paired with the purple and green thread looks pretty. “Well, as my darling mother always says: simple never goes out of style.” She smiles up at me but the warmth doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “My sister and I are here for my dress fitting. I can’t wait to show everyone what Mr. Ludgate made me for the ball. It’s a custom piece!” She practically squeals. I nod and bid her goodbye, waving Prim over so we can leave. I breathe a sigh of relief as we exit the shop. I hate girl talk. 

With our main objective for coming to Whitley carried out, my feet automatically turn towards home, but Prim has other ideas. “Can we look at the cakes, Katniss?” She begs. She’s like a little puppy. I can’t refuse, though I grow more anxious with every step closer to the bakery we get. 

I know what this is. A look at the cakes in the window leads to Prim asking to go inside. It’s happened before and I’ve been lucky enough to avoid him. He works alongside his parents and two older brothers anyway. What are the chances that he’ll be manning the counter and not the ovens in the back? 

Prim pulls me through the bakery doors and runs to press her face against the display case. I hear a call of “I’ll be right there!” from the back, followed by a grunt and the shuffling of boxes. I join Prim and am just starting to admire the selection of pastries when I hear a quiet gasp and look up. 

It's him. The baker’s youngest son. I don't know him by name but I remember him. Of course, I remember him. I can almost feel the icy sheets of rain and the hollow numbness of hunger from that horrible day as I meet his gaze. 

Our father had died three months earlier. He had been a poor wheat farmer but the income from the harvest was enough to support a small household. My mother traded plants and home remedies to supplement what our empty pockets couldn’t buy. One winter, my father had been kicked in the head by his horse. My mother did everything she could but even as young as I was, I knew he had died before he hit the ground. After that my mother stopped eating. She just sat in bed and stared at the walls while her children turned to skin and bone. I did everything to try and rouse her but it was no use. With our father dead so too was her will to live. 

At eleven I became the sole provider of the family. I ventured into town alone to sell that damn horse, some old jewelry, and even dresses of my mother’s from her merchant days, but the money ran out quickly and there was more to buy than food. Our hearth sat cold, unused, and wanting of wood, and we resorted to rubbing ourselves raw to keep warm. We stopped attending school in the village, afraid that a teacher would see how hollow we were becoming and would whisk us away to the orphanage. I had seen orphans in the schoolyard, their faces empty and their shoulders slumped in defeat. I would never let that happen to Prim. 

We had eaten nothing but dried mint leaves in water for three days before I decided to try selling some of Prim’s old baby clothes in town. The clothes were threadbare and faded so nobody had wanted them. My arms were shaking so violently from cold and malnourishment that I ended up dropping them in a puddle. I decided to leave them there, afraid that if I bent over I wouldn’t be able to get back up. 

I found myself stumbling around behind a row of brick buildings. The rain had started and I was soaked to the bone. The smell of baking bread carried over the frigid air and I realized I was behind the bakery. The back door was open and I stood, trancelike, basking in the warm glow of the ovens before a thought floated through my foggy head. Maybe they had food scraps in their trash. A crust of bread or rotting vegetables, something only my family was desperate enough to eat. I lifted the tops off of the bins and my hopes died when I saw that their insides were heartbreakingly bare. 

Suddenly, I heard a woman screeching. It was the baker’s wife. She spat remarks about how she was sick of people going through her trash bins and if I didn’t leave she would call law enforcement. As I dropped the lids and backed away I saw a boy peeking out from behind his mother’s skirts. I recognized him from school but we had never talked. 

With my final hope gone I slumped against a scrubby little apple tree in their yard. My knees buckled and I slipped down into the mud. I would rather die than go home empty-handed to Prim’s gaunt face and my mother’s sickly, unblinking eyes. 

I heard a commotion from the bakery and then the ring of metal on flesh. 

“Feed it to the pigs you worthless creature! No one decent will buy burnt bread!” The witch screeched. There was the boy again, come out the back door clutching two blackened loaves. A bright red mark shone on his cheek and my heart twisted when I realized his mother must have hit him. He looked between me and the pigpen, and then glanced back towards the door. His mother must have gone up to front to serve a customer because then I heard him sloshing his way through puddles to get to me. 

“Take them!” He urged, pressing the loaves into my skeletal hands. “Take them! Go!” As quickly as he came he was gone, back into the kitchens. I watched him disappear. As he closed the door only then did I realize what he had done for me. 

Two loaves of bread! And they weren’t even that burned, really only the crusts had been damaged. I quickly pressed them to the skin under my shirt and hurried home. The searing heat from the loaves roused something within me. I couldn’t die. Not when I had Prim to take care of.

I dropped the loaves on the table and stopped my sister from savagely tearing a chunk off for herself. I sat her down, forced our mother to join us, and then began scraping off the blackened bits. That night we feasted on two slices of bread each, afraid so much food might make us sick. The loaves were hearty, filled with nuts and bits of cranberry. I had never tasted anything so good in my entire life. 

 As I predicted, it was a teacher that found out about our situation. Upon our absence at school, she had come looking for us and found Prim and I living in squalor with a mother that was too sick to care. I thought that was it, that we were to be sent to the orphanage now and our mother taken away to an institution. But a man by the name of Haymitch Abernathy, wealthy and lacking a family of his own, intervened. He had heard of our misfortunes from hushed gossip around the village and had petitioned to adopt us. Our mother was eventually sent to an institution by the sea and we’ve lived with Haymitch, fed and clothed and taken care of, ever since. 

The baker’s boy saved our lives that day. Surely I would have given up and died under that apple tree if it wasn’t for the kindness he showed me. I owe him everything. And because of that, I will never be able to pay him back. 

I take him in now. He's taller than he was before. Much taller. His chubby child’s build has been replaced with an imposing stature that takes up almost the entire doorway. I guess a lifetime of hefting bakery pans and kneading dough has left him broad-shouldered and muscular. 

“Katniss,” he says. I can tell he’s surprised to see me. His voice is deep and I note that his blonde hair curls with sweat. There’s a streak of flour on his cheek and an apron tied around his waist.

“It’s Ms. Everdeen,” I correct him. It’s out before I can stop myself and as soon as I say it I want to bite my own tongue off. How pretentious I must sound. It's only after Prim has begun ordering a sugar-dusted fruit tart from the case that I realize with a start that the baker's boy knows my name. 

His face is flushed and pink when he turns his eyes to me. 

“I'll take four of those cookies,” I get out. “The orange lilies.” My voice sounds weaker than normal. I hate this. I feel fragile under this boy’s gaze. And that's when I realize: he must be waiting for his thank you. For the bread that he burned and took a beating for. But I can't do it, either because Prim is with me and it would confuse her and probably embarrass the boy, or because it's been five years and the time for ‘thank you’ is over. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he doesn't remember. He probably only knows my name because it was a source of gossip around town when Haymitch adopted Prim and I. He must remember me from then. 

He gives me a timid smile, deftly wraps the cookies in parchment paper, ties them securely with a piece of fringed twine, and hands the package to me. I suddenly feel the need to fill the silence so I blurt: “They’re beautiful. The cookies.” 

He manages to turn a shade pinker. “Thank you, I do most of the frosting around here. I made those this morning.” As I hand him the money for the treats, I assume that's it. That was the end of our conversation. But my tongue is moving again. 

“They look just like the lilies in the woods. I see them on my morning walks.” 

“Yes, exactly,” He grins and reveals a charming set of dimples. “I’ve seen them when I go to the woods to paint.” 

I don't know what else to say and Prim has started tugging on my hand. She’s probably anxious to get home so we can enjoy our treats with tea, so I give him one last look and utter one last thank you before heading back out into the crowded square. 

“Do you know him?” Prim asks as we begin walking towards home. 

“No,” I say, a little relieved to be leaving. I can't catch my breath and my heart is racing like it does when something frightens me. “I don't even know his name.”

“Well, I've never seen you be that talkative with a stranger.” She beams. “Wait until I tell Mrs. Winthrop!” 

Is that what he is to me? A stranger? I shake the thought from my head.

He knew my name. The very least I can do is learn his.