#and i almost scrapped it entirely because it got away too personal

[eybefioro]

Weekly fic rec, by yours truly...

The wind stills ruffles our hair, still shakes the leaves of the trees. The world keeps on spinning. People still walk on the streets, still keep on their routines. We share old stories, old photographs, old memories. We offer each other a hug, even if it can only do as much as wave the cold away. Sometimes, that warmth is what we need to sooth the aching lump in our throats. Sometimes, it just makes it hurt more, but we need it all the same.

I was living my life like normal, until I saw this post. I wasn't prepared to have the ground shattering beneath my feet.

The Ordinary World, by Anti_kate

Rated E, ~24,8k words

My tags: intense, cathartic, beautiful

Summary:

He couldn’t quite remember what Aziraphale smelled like anymore, the particular combination of fresh bread and sea salt and cedarwood, the caramelized sugar of crème brûlée. But even though he couldn’t remember the scent precisely, he knew the bookshop didn’t smell right. It didn’t smell like Aziraphale. It was as if he’d never been there at all. Aziraphale disappears the night of the bookshop fire, and Crowley is left alone and grieving. But death is not always the end.

Hm. This fic spoke to me in such a level. Cut me deep and dissected my feelings in such a way that I didn't expect -- so I'm sorry in advance. This will get a bit personal, and I don't know to which extent everyone can relate to this story, and to which extent is me projecting my own experiences.

So, this can be a particular experience of mine, but I don't see many stories dealing with grief. In the movies, TV shows, books, etc. that I've watched and read, it's an uncommon theme. I find that interesting because even if it is different for everybody (and if every time it hits differently), everyone experiences grief. In the same way that everyone dies, everyone also feels the pain of grief.

We see characters dying and characters suffering for it, but the grief per se is uncommon. And I think that's because it happens a lot in one's head, it's not a linear process, it's complex and painful, and it's never the same. It doesn't even end. We never really stop mourning. We go through our days, and the grief is with us. We work, and it sits by our side. We laugh, and it warps its arms around our shoulders. We cry, and it constrict our voices. We eat, and half of it goes to its belly. We walk, and its weight slows us down. We learn to live with it, we grow around it, but that hollowness is always there, never fulfilled again.

And this story taps into that so well (for me, at least). It describes so well the sense of loss, the sense of emptiness, the absence that lingers. How everything hurts, how it feels for the world to end, and nothing changing. For it to end and people still being the same, doing the same things. For it to end, and for you to confront the fact that it means nothing, really; you still, somehow, have to keep going, you, somehow, are still alive. The world ended, nothing changed, and you still have to breathe.

All that is left is your memories, and they aren't even the same anymore. You can't exactly remember them, but your body does. You get assaulted by them. You get haunted by the ghosts of the people you lost -- you can hear their voices on the back of your mind, you can feel them on their words, on the things they owned, on the things they did. You listen to a song and BAM! there is their ghost singing those lyrics, hoping to that rhythm, a memory that you didn't know you still had. Their ghosts haunt you. But they're gone. They don't exist anymore, only being alive in the past; only still in the memories, in memories that, more often than not, will die with you and cease to exist when all that's left of you is the memories on other people's heads.

We see Crowley go through that. We see him hurting like we (maybe *I*, lol) hurt. We see his suffering upon losing Aziraphale, and how he hurts himself trying to stop hurting, and unfortunately, the hurt is inescapable. He sacrifices a lot to get answers, to try to get close to Aziraphale again -- and what wouldn't I sacrifice only to be able to hug the people I lost ome more time...

But the good news is that he can get Aziraphale back. And he does. The plot is amazing. The descriptions of how he does that and the twists are amazing. This fic is so poetic, and the ending is so beautiful. Reading Crowley getting Aziraphale back was incredible, especially after seeing (experiencing, really) the hurt.

I love how the author wrote this story, their prose is beautiful. Haunting. I loved every bit, and I felt so seen, hugged by Crowley's hurt; he getting back something that I will never be able to was great. It comforted me a lot, even if it hurt (and it did hurt a lot lol I still have a lump on my throat and did cry yesterday because of it, but it was a good type of cry. One that makes you feel good after).

This fic made me feel a lot, and I'm so grateful for it (@antikate I'm sorry for tagging you I just want you to know that I loved your fic so much, and I for sure wasn't able to get that across by my comments there. Rhank you so much for this story) It's so beautiful and... aaa alright time to end this rec. I babbled a lot and said almost nothing, I feel like. Just go read it (not for everyone, I know, but yet...).

This fic is like drinking a too-sweet beverage to try to swallow a too-bitter med. Like making popcorn when you feel sad, because that's what they did when they felt sad.Like keep on living and laughing, because they would like you to.

[brunchable]

𝙄 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝘽𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙

Part Two Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: Heavy Mutual Pinining, Heavy Sexual Tension, Longing, Yearning, Right Person-Wrong Time. Friends to Lovers, a bit Angsty but Happy Ending. SMUT: Touch Hungry Bucky, Kiss Hungry Bucky, Bucky being obsessed with tiddies, unprotected piv, creampie. Summary: Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled you in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt. A/N: This is a Two Shot, so another one will be coming soon.

tags: @hzdhrtss @winterslove1917 @classicrebound

The first time it really hits is when you see him with her.

It’s a crowded room, warm bodies pressed close together, the low hum of music barely louder than the thudding in your chest as you watch Bucky Barnes wrap his arm around the waist of a woman you don’t know. 

She’s beautiful, of course—someone you'd expect to be by his side. Her laugh is soft, melting into his as he leans in close, whispering something that lights her face up, his lips brushing her ear like he can’t help himself.

You glance down at your drink, the sudden bitterness pooling in your throat harder to swallow than the wine. You tell yourself to look away, that it’s none of your business who he holds, but you can’t. Every time you look up, he’s there, still wrapped around her, laughing at something she’s said, his hand resting on her back in a way that feels too familiar, too tender. You know that look—the way his fingers splay protectively, pulling her close like she belongs to him. Like he’s finally let someone in.

It’s torture, standing there with a smile plastered on your face, pretending not to notice. Pretending that it doesn’t crush you.

Because when you’re alone—when you’re single—he’s taken. And when he’s got nobody, you do. Every single time. You’ve gotten used to seeing him across rooms, with someone else in his arms, with that look in his eyes that you wish, desperately, could be meant for you.

And he’s always looking at you that same way, that glance just a second too long, that warmth held back by a fragile thread of restraint. Just enough to keep the lines from blurring.

Tonight, he finally looks away.

When he glances up, catches sight of you, his smile falters. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, and something soft flickers in his eyes—something like regret, the same regret you carry. But her hand tightens on his arm, and he turns back to her, his smile returning, wider than before. You hate how easily he can pull away from you, how quickly he can make you feel invisible.

“Hey, Bucky,” you manage, your voice steady though it feels like your chest is caving in.

He looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Hey.” His gaze drops, and for a second, you think he might actually say something, that he might admit that this hurts him too. But then she shifts closer, and he wraps his arm around her more firmly, giving you a look that’s both a dare and a dismissal.

“This is Emily,” he says, and she gives you a polite, too-sweet smile.

“Oh.” You swallow, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “I didn’t know… I hadn’t realized you were…” You can’t finish, the words catching in your throat.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s tone is almost too casual, too final. “We’re together.”

The finality of it slices through you, sharp and clean. You nod, trying to hold onto whatever scraps of dignity you have left, but all you can manage is, “Well… congratulations. I’m… I’m glad you’re happy.”

There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—anger? Hurt? But his jaw tightens, and he nods, looking away as if to spare you. 

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” he says, his voice steady, controlled.

Emily pulls him closer, a satisfied smile curving her lips as she glances at you. 

“He’s incredible, isn’t he?” she says, and there’s a challenge in her tone, a silent declaration that she’s won, that whatever you think you had with him is nothing compared to this. She presses a kiss to his cheek, her fingers curling possessively around his shoulder as she tilts her head, catching his gaze.

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice hollow. “Yeah, he is.”

And for a brief, desperate second, you think he might look at you—really look at you, see how much this is tearing you apart. But he doesn’t. His gaze is on her, soft and full of warmth, a look he’s given you a thousand times. And it feels like he’s choosing her, like he’s making the decision to let go of whatever fragile orbit kept you two circling each other all this time.

You turn away, trying to hold yourself together, but the ache in your chest is all-consuming, a raw, relentless reminder that he’s moved on. That he’s chosen her.

And as you walk away, you can still hear their laughter, the sound twisting like a knife in your chest, leaving you wondering if he was ever yours to lose.

And then one night, fate flips, and you’re the one with someone new by your side.

It’s been months since you last saw Bucky. You assumed he was out of your life for good, until tonight, when you walk into the cozy warmth of a private dining room in a restaurant, your hand firmly held by your boyfriend Andrew. It’s Steve’s dinner party, a small gathering of friends, and the lighthearted chatter fills the air, mixing with the warm glow from the dimmed overhead lights.

You’re laughing at something your boyfriend said as you step into the room, but your laughter dies in your throat when you see him.

Bucky is seated across the table, leaning back casually in his chair, but the moment his eyes meet yours, a spark flickers there—surprise, mingled with something darker, something that quickens your pulse. You hadn’t expected him to be here tonight, and judging by the way his gaze lingers, he hadn’t expected you either.

Steve stands, grinning as he greets you and Andrew, and you introduce him to everyone. You smile, trying to seem natural as you move around the table, your hand still resting in your boyfriend’s. But it feels wrong, the warmth of your boyfriend’s fingers against yours suddenly strange, like it doesn’t quite belong.

When you reach Bucky, he stands, his jaw tense, his eyes unwavering as he offers a hand to shake. You almost expect him to make some dry remark, to cover up whatever unspoken tension lies between you. But he’s silent as he grips Andrew’s hand firmly, while looking at you. His fingers are steady, a touch too tight, like he’s barely holding something back.

“So, you’re the boyfriend,” Bucky says, his voice calm but laced with something you can’t quite place.

Your boyfriend laughs, unaware of the tension. “Yeah, I am. And you’re the famous Bucky I keep hearing about.”

Bucky’s lips twitch into a half-smile, but his eyes remain cold. 

“I’m sure you have.” He releases your boyfriend’s hand, his gaze shifting back to you, lingering a second too long before he forces himself to look away.

It should feel like a victory—that, for once, you’re the one who’s found happiness while he’s left to watch. But the second you meet his eyes, the air shifts. You feel the weight of everything unspoken, of the years that have passed with both of you just out of reach, orbiting each other but never colliding.

You take your seat next to your boyfriend, aware of every brush of his arm against yours, every gentle squeeze of his hand on your knee under the table. He leans close, murmuring something soft and sweet, and you offer a small smile, but your focus is entirely on Bucky, sitting across the table, his gaze flickering between you and Andrew, his jaw set with that same restrained tension.

As the night wears on, Bucky remains quiet, only contributing here and there to the conversation, but each time he speaks, his words feel weighted, almost directed at you.

“So,” he says, finally breaking the silence, his voice cutting through the chatter, “I’m guessing you’re happy?”

The question is simple enough, but there’s a challenge hidden beneath it, a question he doesn’t ask outright.

“Yes, I am,” you say, your voice firmer than you feel, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

Your boyfriend glances over, squeezing your hand, unaware of the undercurrents in the room. 

“She’s stuck with me now,” he jokes, nudging you. “No escape.”

You laugh softly, but the sound feels hollow, especially when you catch Bucky’s expression—something dark and raw flashing in his eyes before he schools his features again.

“Good for you both,” Bucky replies, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. “It’s about time.”

There’s a pause, the kind that seems to echo louder than any conversation, and you can feel Bucky’s gaze burning into you, filled with a thousand things he can’t say. Your chest tightens as the weight of everything unsaid settles heavily between you, filling the air with a tension you’re certain everyone can feel.

As people start to leave, you find yourself alone with Bucky by the door. Your boyfriend is across the room, saying goodbyes, and it’s just you and Bucky in the dimly lit entryway, a fragile bubble of space and time.

“So…” His voice is low, almost too soft, his eyes searching yours. “This is it, then?”

There’s a vulnerability in his words that pierces through you, a rawness you’ve never heard before. It’s as if he’s waiting for you to deny it.

You glance away, your voice barely a whisper. “Yep. This is it.”

A shadow crosses his face, and he just stands there, watching you, his gaze heavy. He doesn’t say anything for awhile, his hand lingering just inches from yours, as though he’s contemplating reaching out, breaking whatever boundary lies between you. The air feels thick, and you wonder if he can hear the frantic beat of your heart.

But he lets his hand fall back to his side. 

“Guess there’s nothing left to say,” he murmurs, a bitter edge coloring his voice. His eyes linger on you, as if he’s memorizing every detail, every second of this final, silent goodbye.

You open your mouth, but the words die on your lips, caught between everything you want to say and everything you can’t. You reach out, almost instinctively, but Andrew calls your name from across the room, his voice shattering the fragile stillness.

Bucky’s gaze flickers, and he takes a step back, his expression falling into something guarded. 

“Take care, doll,” he says softly, the words laced with both a goodbye and a promise. His eyes linger on you one last time, and then he’s gone, slipping out into the night.

He’d spent years replacing your lips with so many others, all in an attempt to forget the mark you left on him.

Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled her in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt.

× × × × 

Present

It’s one of those nights, another dinner gathering among friends, the kind that’s almost become routine. You’re already seated in the cozy living room, surrounded by the familiar warmth of Steve’s place. The soft glow of lamps and low bable of conversation wrap around you like a comfortable blanket, and for the first time in a long time, you’re truly at ease.

Beside you, Sam nudges your shoulder. 

“Hey Boo,” he says, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips, “remember when you and Bucky were practically attached at the hip? What happened there?”

The question catches you off guard, and you feel warmth creeping up your neck as a few heads turn, curious eyes glancing your way. You roll your eyes, nudging him back. 

“Leave it to you to bring that up, Sam.”

He chuckles, unrelenting. “C’mon, just saying. You two were tight. I mean, tight.”

You let out a small, nervous laugh, feeling the weight of a few more gazes on you, even if they aren’t pushing the question. 

“It’s… complicated,” you finally say, giving him a look that tells him to drop it. But Sam just chuckles, clearly amused, like he knows something no one else does.

“Complicated.” He echoes with a slow nod, a knowing grin spreading. “Right. Complicated.”

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, barely suppressing a smile, but you can’t deny the fondness in your tone. Sam just winks, nudging you again, and the others quickly move on, the brief moment of attention fading as conversation flows around you.

And that’s when the front door opens, and you hear his voice.

“Sorry I’m late,” Bucky calls out, his deep voice filling the space effortlessly as he steps in, slightly flushed from the cold outside. His eyes scan the room, and the moment they land on you, you swear the air shifts, that it crackles with something electric, something only the two of you seem to feel.

Your heart stumbles over itself as he walks further into the room, tugging off his jacket and offering smiles and nods to everyone. But it’s like a magnetic pull—his eyes keep flickering back to you, and each time it does, your stomach does a nervous, excited flip.

He looks good. Better than good, really. There’s a slight scruff along his jaw, and his hair falls just so, framing his face in a way that makes you want to reach out and touch it. When he finally reaches the empty chair directly across from you, he stops, fingers lingering on the back of it.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asks, his voice low, and there’s something almost hesitant in his eyes, like he’s waiting for permission to be close to you.

You shake your head, trying to keep your cool, even though every part of you is screaming, yes, sit, sit right here and don’t you dare move.

“No, go ahead,” you reply, hoping your voice sounds steady.

He sits, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted, and the faint scent of his cologne drifts over, warm and familiar, making your head spin.

As he settles in, he leans slightly closer, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Long time no see.”

“Feels that way, doesn’t it?” you murmur, feeling your cheeks warm under his gaze. Every subtle movement, every small smile he throws your way feels like it’s weaving a thread around you both, pulling you in.

The conversation around you resumes, but it’s like you’re in a bubble, the two of you orbiting each other again. Every so often, his knee brushes yours under the table, just enough to send a shiver up your spine, to make you bite back a smile. His hand rests on the table between you, his fingers drumming absently, and you find yourself staring at them, remembering every time those hands had nearly, almost touched yours.

After a lull in conversation, he clears his throat, glancing at you sideways. 

“So… where’s the boyfriend?” he asks, almost casually, but you catch the underlying question. His tone is light, but his eyes are cautious, searching yours, looking for an answer he can’t ask outright.

You raise a brow, unable to hide the grin pulling at your lips. 

“Well,” you say, tilting your head slightly as you meet his gaze, “the lack of presence should answer your question.”

For a second, Bucky just stares, and then a slow, dawning smile spreads across his face, his whole expression softening, the guardedness falling away. He looks like he’s holding back from saying something, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table, his knee pressing just a little more against yours as he leans in.

And before you can think twice, you match his question with your own, barely above a whisper. “And where’s your girlfriend, Bucky?”

“Nonexistent.” he said almost instantly.

His eyes hold yours, and something subtle shifts in them—a hint of a smile playing at his lips, but he doesn’t look away though he plays it off with a small, casual shrug. “Guess I’ve been waiting for the right person.”

You nod, feeling the smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. 

“Nice,” you say, trying to keep it casual, though your heart’s picking up a pace of its own.

“Yeah… nice.” He lets out a quiet chuckle, raising an eyebrow as if he’s catching onto your attempt at nonchalance. 

Deafening silence settles between you, but it’s charged, a silent exchange that makes you feel more breathless than words ever could. Neither of you seems to move, his knee still brushing yours under the table, and it feels like he’s lingering in your space, right on that line between friend and something more. 

You glance around, feeling the tension rise, and blow your bangs out of your eyes, hoping it might ease the knot in your stomach. But when you sneak a look at him, he’s still staring, his gaze solid, unblinking, and suddenly you’re hyper aware of every tiny shift in the air between you. Your cheeks warm, and you look away quickly, pressing your lips together, but it only makes your heart pound harder.

Your cheeks warm instantly, and you quickly look away, focusing hard on the table.

A small smile tugs at his lips, his voice soft. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

Your pulse quickens, and you swallow, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. 

“Maybe a little,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

A spark lights in his eyes, and his smile widens, soft but undeniably mischievous. 

“Good,” he murmurs, his knee pressing just a fraction closer to yours, enough to send a thrill up your spine. “Because, for the record… you make me a little nervous too.”

Your heart does a flip, and you feel a grin tug at your lips despite yourself. 

“I make you nervous?” You try to keep the surprise out of your voice, but he just nods, his gaze intense, that teasing warmth settling over his expression.

“Yeah, you do,” he says, his tone light but honest, like he’s been waiting to say it. “Especially when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, barely breathing.

“Like you’re about to bolt… but part of you doesn’t want to.” His voice is low, and his eyes search yours, as if he’s daring you to deny it.

You feel the smile you’ve been holding back break through, your heart racing as the last of the distance between you seems to dissolve. Just as you’re about to respond, a voice calls from the dining room, breaking the tension as everyone calls you both to join.

“Guess we should go, huh?” Bucky lets out a soft chuckle, pulling back just slightly, though his gaze lingers on yours for a heartbeat longer. 

“Yeah,” you manage, feeling a little breathless.

But as you both stand and head to the dining room, his hand brushes yours, just enough for his pinky to link with yours for a brief, secret moment. The warmth of that tiny touch lingers, and you can’t help but feel like something just shifted between you, something new and thrilling, waiting just under the surface.

× × × ×

As you both step into the dining room, Sam raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There they are,” he teases, his voice just loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. “We were wondering what’s taking so long.”

Heat creeps up your cheeks, and you catch Bucky’s gaze, a subtle, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You feel your pulse quicken, but you don’t say anything, slipping into the room to find only two empty seats—right beside each other.

Bucky gestures to the chair beside him, waiting until you sit before settling in next to you. He settles in beside you, his broad shoulders and steady presence enveloping the space, making you feel smaller.

Conversations swirl around the table, but you’re painfully aware of every tiny shift Bucky makes. The subtle brush of his arm against yours, the steady warmth radiating from his shoulder—it all has your heart racing. His hand rests on the table beside yours, fingers drumming lightly, and your pulse hammers as his knee presses just slightly against yours under the table, a connection so subtle yet electric that it makes your skin tingle.

Then he adjusts his position, angling himself more toward the group—and you. The small movement brings him even closer, and you’re immediately enveloped in his scent, something warm and cedar-like, filling the air around you until it feels almost overwhelming, in the best possible way. You take a slow breath, fighting the urge to close the distance even more, feeling trapped between wanting to be near him and feeling breathless because of it.

As Bucky joins the conversation, you find yourself watching him, captivated by the way he leans in, his voice low and steady, his easy confidence only pulling you in deeper. His lips curve as he speaks, and you can’t help but linger on every detail, the way his eyes light up, the rough timbre of his laugh, every tiny thing about him that’s impossibly distracting.

And then, in the middle of a sentence, his eyes flick back to you, catching you looking. You quickly look away, feeling your cheeks burn as you fixate on your plate, hoping he didn’t notice the way you’d been studying him.

But out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His pinky grazes yours again, a gentle, teasing touch, sending a thrill up your spine as he continues his conversation, his presence unmistakable and impossible to ignore.

You try to focus on anything else, but his gaze keeps finding you, even when you’re not looking. And with every shared glance, every quiet brush of his fingers, the air grows thicker, charged with something unspoken, as if each tiny touch is daring you to lean in, to close that final distance.

You’re doing everything you can to keep your composure, to focus on the laughter and stories being shared. But Bucky’s presence beside you is inescapable, it’s a thrill that’s leaving you silent, lost in your own thoughts as the night goes on.

Sam’s voice suddenly cuts through, pulling you back to reality. 

“Hey,” he says, smirking as he leans back in his chair, his gaze playful but sharp. “You’re unusually quiet tonight. What’s going on with you?”

Feeling everyone’s eyes on you, you force a small laugh, trying to brush off the tension simmering under your skin. 

“Just… food coma, I guess,” you say, waving a hand and attempting a casual smile. 

Sam raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Food coma? Really?” He drags out the words, as if he’s not buying it for a second, and you can see the teasing glint in his eyes. “Pasta’s got you this speechless?”

Beside you, Bucky’s lips twitch, and you can feel his gaze, that familiar, subtle amusement making it impossible not to blush. You risk a quick glance at him, only to find him looking back with that same knowing smirk, like he can see right through every excuse.

“Maybe she’s just tired of all your talking, Sam,” Bucky says smoothly, draping his arm over the back of your chair as he speaks. The movement is so casual, so effortless, that it almost seems like an afterthought. But the warmth of his arm behind you, his fingers just brushing the curve of your shoulder, makes your heart race in ways you can’t ignore. His tone stays casual, but there’s a hint of laughter in his eyes as he looks at Sam, his thumb grazing your shoulder in a subtle, grounding touch.

Sam raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright. Just thought I’d check,” he says, throwing a playful wink in your direction.

You feel yourself sink back just slightly, leaning into the warmth of his arm, and it’s impossible to ignore the way his fingers stay near your shoulder, steady and unassuming but unmistakably there. The conversations resume around you, but the space between you and Bucky feels even smaller, the quiet thrill of his touch pulling you in.

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping so only you can hear. 

“That food coma excuse was almost convincing,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with playful challenge as he watches your reaction.

× × × ×

As the night winds down, people start to gather their things, saying their goodbyes. You slip on your coat, waiting for Sam to finish up his goodbyes, but he suddenly turns to Steve with a grin.

“Hey, Rogers,” Sam says, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “How about we hit that bar down the street? Just a quick nightcap.”

You raise an eyebrow, deadpanning as you fold your arms. “Seriously, Sam?”

He flashes you an unapologetic grin, shrugging. “What? You’re always saying you’re an independent woman. I figured a little alone time wouldn’t hurt.”

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head, muttering, “You’re an asshole.”

Sam just laughs, looking over his shoulder. 

“Hey, maybe Bucky can give you a lift. It’ll be like old times.” He gives you a wink, completely ignoring the way your cheeks warm.

You glance at Bucky, trying to keep your expression neutral. “It’s fine, really,” you say quickly. “I’ll just grab an Uber.”

“Suit yourself,” Sam says, grabbing his jacket and heading out with Steve. “But you know Bucky’s free.” He gives you one last smirk before slipping out the door, leaving you standing there with Bucky, who’s leaning casually against the wall, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Need a ride?” he asks, his voice warm, that familiar glint in his eyes that makes your stomach flutter.

You open your mouth to decline, still feeling a bit of resistance. “It’s fine. Really. I’ll just grab an Uber.”

Bucky chuckles softly, tilting his head toward the door. “I’ll drop you off. It’s fine.”

You hold his gaze for a few seconds, trying to gauge his sincerity, but there’s that familiar steadiness in his eyes, a quiet patience that leaves you with no real reason to argue. Finally, you sigh, giving in with a reluctant nod.

The car ride starts in silence, the engine’s low hum filling the tense quiet between you, only occasionally interrupted by the soft rattle of snowflakes pelting against the windows as the blizzard starts to gather strength. 

You shift in your seat, fidgeting, your hands smoothing over your coat, your fingers picking at invisible lint. Nothing feels comfortable. Every second, your eyes flick to the window, tracing the passing streetlights, trying to focus on anything but him.

But you can feel him there. The warmth of him beside you, the steady, calm presence that somehow has you on edge, unable to breathe fully. His familiar scent fills the car—a mix of cedar and something undeniably him—sharp and soothing all at once, making the small space feel even smaller.

You cross your arms, uncross them, uncross your legs, then cross them again, pressing your back firmly into the seat as if that might stop the quick, relentless beat of your heart. But each turn he makes, each slight shift of his shoulders, sends a fresh rush of awareness through you, and your mind is racing, trying to keep pace with the pulsing tension that seems to settle between you like a third presence.

Finally, desperate for a distraction, you reach over and flip on the radio, hoping for anything to ease the silence. But the first song is almost too on the nose, the lyrics hitting like they were made for this moment:

"All of this silence and patience, pining and anticipation, my hands are shaking from holding back from you…”

A breath catches in your throat, and before the verse can continue, you reach over and quickly press the button again, changing the station, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

The next station crackles to life, and it’s somehow worse.

“Cause when I got somebody, you don’t and when you got somebody, I don’t. I wish that the time would line up so we could just give in…”

Your pulse races, and you switch stations again, more urgently this time, and the next song fills the car with a familiar pop beat.

“You ain’t my boyfriend and I ain’t your girlfriend. But you don’t want me to see nobody else and I don’t want you to see nobody…”

You press the power button, cutting off the music entirely, and the silence that follows feels heavier than before. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your coat, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him glancing your way, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Bucky clears his throat, his voice a low murmur. “Trouble finding a station?”

You manage a quick, nervous laugh, eyes fixed on the road ahead. 

“Yeah… something like that.”

He just nods, his gaze returning to the road, but you catch the lingering smile in his expression, like he’s perfectly aware of the tension simmering between you, the unspoken things filling the silence.

And as the quiet stretches, you can hear his breathing, steady and unhurried, and it only makes you more aware of your own. You try to breathe normally, in and out, but each breath feels too loud, too obvious, like you’re trying and failing to hide something you both already know.

× × × × 

Bucky pulls up in your driveway, and for a moment, the relief you thought you’d feel at reaching home is overshadowed by something else—something closer to disappointment. The quiet tension that’s been hanging between you feels almost unfinished, and you find yourself wishing the ride could somehow stretch on just a little longer.

He leaves the engine idling, the faint rumble filling the silence as you both sit there, neither moving to get out. After a few seconds, you clear your throat, glancing over at him with a small, reluctant smile.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say, voice softer than you intended.

Bucky nods, returning your smile, but you can see a similar reluctance flicker across his face as he glances toward the house. 

“Anytime,” he murmurs.

Your eyes drift to the porch, and you remember the old habit the two of you shared, back when he’d drop by after a night out with everyone—those late nights with coffee and the dessert your mom always made, the one he loved and never turned down.

The memory brings a small smile to your lips, and before you can second-guess yourself, you look back at him. 

“Actually… my mom made her chocolate tart. The one you like. If you’re up for coffee and dessert, that is,” you say, feeling a twinge of nerves despite the casual invitation.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard, but you catch the hint of warmth in his eyes. 

“Chocolate tart, huh?” he echoes, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know I can’t say no to that.”

You shrug, playing it off, but your heart races as you nod toward the door. 

“Figured it’d be a shame to let it go to waste. Besides,” you add, trying to keep your tone light, “it’s been a while since we did coffee and dessert.”

Bucky’s smile widens, and he cuts the engine, pocketing his keys before glancing at you with that familiar spark in his eyes. 

“Guess it’s tradition,” he says, opening his door. “Wouldn’t want to break it.”

You step out, leading him up the walkway, and as you unlock the door, the feeling of anticipation settles back over you, even stronger now. It’s like the tension from the car ride has followed you inside. 

As you head into the kitchen, Bucky follows, his gaze drifting over the familiar space. He takes in the room, noticing what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. The same cozy lamp in the corner, casting a warm glow over the soft cushions on the couch, the same framed photos on the wall—but a few new things catch his attention.

A navy-blue jacket, draped over the armchair, too large to be yours. A set of keys on the counter with a small metal keychain that he doesn’t recognize. And a book on the coffee table, a spy thriller with a bookmark halfway through. He frowns slightly, his mind racing as he takes in these small, unfamiliar details, each one lighting a spark of jealousy that flares bright, unbidden.

He hadn’t asked about Andrew—hadn’t wanted to. But now, surrounded by small traces of him, the thought of someone else being part of this space, of sharing moments with you that once might have been his, digs into him with an unexpected force. The sight of it sparks something sharp and unbidden within him, jealousy flaring up like a match struck in the dark. He swallows, trying to ignore it, trying to remind himself that he has no right to feel this way, but the thought of Andrew’s things still lingering here sends his mind racing.

In the kitchen, you’re busy slicing the chocolate tart, setting two plates with practiced ease as you fill the silence with the familiar rhythm of preparing coffee. But every now and then, you feel his gaze on you, heavy and searching, like he’s taking in every detail of the room and of you.

Bucky clears his throat softly, his voice low as he leans against the doorway, watching you pour the coffee. “Things… feel different here,” he says, trying to keep his tone casual, but there’s a roughness in his voice that betrays him.

Your eyes follow his gaze to the jacket, and a flicker of understanding crosses your face. You give a small, almost sheepish laugh. 

“Oh, that. He left it here ages ago. I keep meaning to get rid of it, but it’s… just kind of stayed.” You shrug, looking away as if embarrassed by the attachment. “Guess I’m just lazy.”

He nods, the answer somehow not as satisfying as he’d hoped. His gaze shifts back to the room, trying to reconcile this familiar space with the small hints of someone else. 

“Ah,” he says, his tone lighter. “I get it. Hard to let go of things sometimes.”

You nod, a knowing look in your eyes, as if you both understand the layers beneath his words. You hand him his plate, the rich scent of chocolate and coffee filling the room as he takes it, his fingers brushing yours for a brief, lingering moment.

Settling down at the table, he watches you from across the coffee cup, the quiet tension between you only growing thicker. And as he takes a bite of the chocolate tart, the flavors familiar and nostalgic, he can’t help but feel like he’s grasping at something he’s been missing for too long.

You try to focus on your coffee, but Bucky’s gaze is unwavering, fixed solely on you. He takes another slow bite of the chocolate tart, and the way his eyes soften, paired with the slight curve of his lips. It’s like he’s seeing something he missed, something he can’t look away from.

After a beat, you feel the heat rising in your cheeks, unable to take it anymore. 

“What?” you murmur, trying to keep your voice steady, but your heart’s racing too fast.

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He just holds your gaze, eyes dark, thoughtful, and a little teasing, as if he’s enjoying watching you squirm. 

“Just… wondering why it took so long to get back here— it feels good to be here. With you.” His voice is low, quiet, but there’s a warmth behind it that makes your stomach flip.

You glance down, biting back a smile, but you can feel his gaze still on you, unrelenting, like he’s waiting for you to look back. 

“It’s just dessert, Bucky,” you murmur, trying to keep the moment light, but your cheeks betray you, a blush blooming under his attention.

“Maybe,” he replies, his tone teasing, eyes glinting. “But it’s the best damn dessert I’ve had in a long time.” He takes a slow bite of the tart, watching you with that infuriatingly soft gaze that makes it impossible to breathe.

"Christ..." you mutter under your breath, barely aware you’ve said it aloud. His gaze is so intense, it feels like he’s peeling away every defense you’ve carefully built.

“Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he murmurs, but there’s a teasing lilt in his voice, like he’s testing just how far he can push.

You let out a shaky laugh, glancing down at your coffee to avoid those piercing eyes. 

“You’re not… it’s just—” You don’t know how to finish the thought, every word slipping away under his unwavering stare.

He lets the silence hang for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk that’s equal parts infuriating and heart-stopping. Then he leans forward, just a bit closer, his eyes still locked on you, the teasing glint in them intensifying.

“You sure about that?” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth. His fingers toy with the edge of his coffee cup, but his attention never wavers, every inch of him focused on you. “Because if I’m honest… I think I like watching you get flustered. Kind of makes me wonder what else I could do to make you look at me like that.”

Your breath catches, and you feel your pulse race, cheeks burning as his words sink in, every nerve suddenly buzzing. You’re caught, and he knows it, the challenge in his gaze daring you to look away—but you don’t, rooted to the spot, every nerve in your body humming.

But in that moment of stunned silence, something in your expression shifts, your eyes widening ever so slightly. It’s not discomfort, but a soft vulnerability—an openness he wasn’t expecting.

He misreads it entirely.

Bucky straightens abruptly, his face softening as he lets out a quick, self-conscious laugh, breaking eye contact. “I—sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, his smirk fading. “I’m just messing with you. Didn’t mean to… you know, make things weird.”

Your heart clenches at the quickness with which he pulls back, his retreat sudden, like he’s trying to undo the last few moments. You open your mouth, words rushing to the tip of your tongue to stop him, to explain, to tell him he hadn’t made you uncomfortable at all.

“Bucky…” you say softly, reaching out before you can think twice. The moment your fingers brush his hand, he glances up, eyes wide, almost searching yours for permission.

And before you can lose your nerve, you let the words slip, your voice barely a whisper. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable… I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

The tension between you flares back to life, sharper, deeper, as he studies you, realization dawning in his gaze, as if he’s daring himself to believe what you’re saying.

× × × × 

The blizzard outside has intensified, blanketing everything in a thick layer of snow that doesn’t look like it’ll be easing up anytime soon. By the time you both finish your coffee and dessert, the wind is howling against the windows, and the soft glow from the streetlights barely penetrates the wall of snow outside.

You walk to the window, peering out into the swirling white, and let out a small sigh. 

“Looks like it’s getting worse,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Bucky, the words carrying a quiet invitation you don’t fully realize.

Behind you, he steps closer, joining you by the window, his hand resting on the edge of the sill as he gazes out into the storm. 

“Guess I might have to wait it out,” he says, a hint of reluctance in his voice, though his eyes flicker with something warmer as they meet yours. His tone is casual, almost nonchalant, but the unspoken question lingers between you.

You turn to face him, folding your arms, trying to play it off casually. 

“Yeah, probably not the best idea to be out there in this.” You pause, giving him a small smile. “I mean, I have a couch. Wouldn’t be the first time you crashed here.”

He chuckles softly, nodding. 

“Right. Wouldn’t want to risk life and limb just to get home.” There’s a glimmer of amusement in his gaze, like he’s just as reluctant as you are to let the night end.

You manage a laugh, a quiet, slightly nervous sound as you gesture towards the living room. 

“The couch is all yours if you want it. I can grab a spare blanket.” The offer feels both genuine and like an excuse, a small plea for him to stay, if only a bit longer.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice soft, a warmth in his tone that makes your heart skip. “Appreciate it.”

As you disappear down the hall to fetch a blanket and pillow, he lingers in the living room, glancing around the familiar space. He’s barely acknowledged how much he’s missed this—missed you—and now, surrounded by small remnants of your life, it all feels heavier than he expected, like he’s on the brink of something he’s not ready to let go of.

You return with a thick blanket and a pillow, handing them to him as he sets them down on the couch. 

“Here you go. It’s not much, but… I think you’ll survive,” you say, though there’s something tentative in your voice, almost as if you’re testing the waters, hoping he’ll stay a little closer.

Bucky chuckles, sitting on the edge of the couch, his hands settling over his knees as he looks up at you. 

“Yeah, I’ve handled worse, I think,” he replies, his gaze lingering just a bit too long.

A quiet pause stretches between you, neither of you moving. Outside, the snow falls in thick, relentless waves, cocooning you both in this shared moment, and you feel the weight of what’s left unsaid, lingering like an invitation neither of you dares to speak aloud.

Finally, you clear your throat, offering a small smile. 

“Well… goodnight, Bucky,” you say, your voice softer than you intended, and you find yourself hesitating, like you’re reluctant to leave.

He nods, his gaze holding yours for a moment longer than necessary. “Goodnight, doll.”

× × × ×

Bucky was asleep on the couch. Your couch. Crashing at your place, as he had so many nights before.

The man you wanted more than you’d ever wanted anyone in your life.

You couldn't sleep, tossing and turning and thinking of him lying not thirty feet away from you on the other side of your bedroom wall. He had stayed over countless times, what was it about tonight that had you squirming beneath the sheets? 

God, the subtle, masculine scent of him, the warmth of his body so close to yours—maybe he'd actually seen the little shiver of sexual awareness that had rippled through you during dinner.

Whatever it was, you were suffering now. His smile, his voice, his deep, infectious laugh...so what if he had been your friend since, so what if he could be a bit of a doofus at times—okay, a lot of the time—so what if you were both single now and feeling that familiar itch, that longing, that uncomfortable awareness of being without someone just a bit too long.

Fuck.

You both had talked about this. Once—a long time ago. You had agreed; getting involved wasn't the right thing to do—look how many friendships were ruined by relationships.

You threw back the duvet and swung your legs over the side of the bed, wiggling your toes nervously as you bit your lip. 

You needed a drink, that's what you needed. Not that kind of drink—although God knew you weren't far from it. You needed a cool glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge and maybe some splashed on your face for good measure. 

Then you could come back to bed and read. Or listen to some music. Or... something. You had an early start in the morning, you had to find some way to get some sleep. If you were really quiet, you could slip right past him and he'd never even know you'd been out of your room.

You creaked open your bedroom door and listened for the sound of his quiet snoring. Sure enough, the soft sounds of sleep drifted towards you and you straightened, relaxing a little. 

He was sleeping just fine. He wasn't tossing and turning thinking about you.

You slipped out into the chilly living room, and shivered involuntarily. You'd set the thermostat low in the living room to save energy, completely forgetting to turn it up for his sake, so while your bedroom was toasty warm, the living room was cold and still. 

Guiltily you cast your eyes over his sleeping form, sprawled inelegantly over the couch with one hand thrown over his eyes and one leg up over the back of the sofa. He wore only a t-shirt and boxers, and lying with the blanket kicked to the floor instead to cover himself with, he looked vulnerable somehow, and uncomfortable.

And incredibly, almost achingly sexy.

Your eyes roamed over him in blatant appreciation. He was a powerhouse of strength, with thick, chiseled muscles that seemed almost carved from stone. Broad shoulders tapered down to a torso built from years of dedication, and his arms were thick with veins and ridges that caught the light. 

Your gaze slid down his powerful legs, the defined muscle of his thighs flexing beneath the hem of his shorts. He was the embodiment of rugged masculinity, intense and undeniably commanding. His stubbled jaw caught your eye, and you let your gaze linger on his lips—the lips you’d dreamed of tasting so many times...too many times, in fact. So often that sometimes you imagined the fantasy as if it were a memory. So delicious, so sensual and hot.

Only he wasn't hot—you try to tell yourself. You dragged yourself back to reality, frowning as you looked down at him. He was cold.

You went back to the bedroom and pulled an extra blanket off the closet shelf, and carried it back to lay across his sleeping form. He stirred slightly as you draped it over him, and his eyelids fluttered open.             

“Hmmm…” Bucky mumbled thickly, his voice hoarse and low. “Good morning.”

“It's not morning, it's two a.m,” you whispered. “I was just getting you another blanket. Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmmm…” he said, cuddling it around him.

He pulled his leg down off the couch and straightened himself out, stretching languidly, shuddering, like a cat. You loved watching the way his muscles tensed and relaxed. You loved watching him do anything, in fact.

“It's so cold,” You said by way of an unasked-for explanation, and looked away from his body. His eyes were still closed so you could have looked a little longer, but didn't want to risk it.

“Cold?” he murmured. “Just a second.” He pushed aside the blanket and reached for you, tugging you down towards him.

You gasped and lost your footing, sitting down hard on the couch beside him. He pulled you down and enveloped you in his arms, pulling you tight against his chest.

He flipped the blanket over top of both of you. “There. I'll keep you warm.”

A sleepy duskiness coloured his voice, and something in the intimacy of it, the familiarity of it, made your heart flutter rebelliously in your chest. He smelled so damn good, like a mixture of soap and the sweet warm and musky scent of cedar wood. He drew you in closer, molding his body against yours, and God help you, you allowed him. You settled in more comfortably beside him, your leg thrown over his, your arm stretched across his chest.

“I was saying you must be cold,” you whispered. “Not telling you I was.”

“I know.” Bucky said without missing a beat.

You lay there, entwined, quiet, saying nothing more. You rested your head against his chest and could feel more than hear the lazy beat of his heart, and the quiet, smooth passage of his breath. His hand languidly caressed your arm, the rhythm growing slower as he drifted back to sleep. 

Sleep threatened to claim you, too, so you stirred, trying to disentangle from him. You'd have to be near your alarm clock or you'd never get up in time.

“No, don't go,” Bucky murmured as you tried to move. He held you tighter.

“I have to,” you whispered. “I have to get some sleep, I have to get up in a few hours.”

“Stay.”

“I can't.”

He was gradually coming awake, slowly becoming more oriented. He shifted position slightly so that he was more on his side, looking down at you as he rested his head on his bent elbow. He stretched his other arm across you and pulled you closer, gently caressing you back.

“Stay,” he said again. His voice was clearer now. He was fully awake. Still slightly dazed from sleep, but awake.

You hesitated, letting your gaze roam over his face. Finally you whispered, “We talked about this a long time ago, remember?”

“I know. I'm sorry. I just...I want you to stay.”

In the dim moonlight spilling in through the French doors his features were muted, but his eyes—his eyes were large and dark, taking you in with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Bucky moistened his lips, his pupils growing even larger as they roamed over your face and you could feel the pace of his heart pick up and his breathing increase. 

His gaze moved down to your lips and his brow creased in an expression that could have been longing, or frustration, or both. He raised his eyes slowly to meet yours, the haze of desire stealing slowly into his gaze.

“You're not nothing to me,” he said, almost to himself. “That's precisely the problem.”

How on earth were you supposed to resist such a sensual, beautiful, soulful man? Stay? How could you not?

“Please,” he whispered. “Stay. . . I have something I need to get off my chest.”

Your resolve was crumbling as you felt your chest tighten. You looked into his eyes and barely managed to whisper the words. 

“What’s that?”

“This.” 

He lowered his head slowly and kissed you, brushing your lips softly, sensuously, as if in no particular hurry. As if he had all the time in the world to savor you, to taste you, to send pleasure rippling through you with every touch of his lips. He murmured softly as he gently nipped at your bottom lip, teasing your, biting and then kissing-better the lips he was bruising.

You could feel the pleasure he was taking in kissing you, the slow—tortuously slow—pleasure he was enjoying for himself and teasing out of you as he lingered in your mouth. Bucky’s hand slid along your jaw, tilting your face up to him, his thumb caressing your cheek as he kissed you. He broke the kiss and looked down at you in wonder, his eyes glittering in the dim light, then brought your face up to his and kissed you again.

You opened your mouth to him and his tongue slipped in to tangle sensuously with yours. He angled his head from one side to the other, exploring your mouth and pressing kisses along the edges of your lips. You kissed his cheeks, his chin, his light stubble gently razing your lips and making them all the more sensitive. When you found his lips again, their soft warmth was intoxicating and you deepened the kiss, teasing his tongue with your own.

You kissed him back sensually, with equal possessiveness and enjoyment, and knew that your response was emboldening him.

Bucky tensed and pressed against you, his kiss growing firmer and more insistent. His mouth moved over yours expertly, wringing pleasure from you in breaths that came faster and little cries that escaped into the quiet of the room. Your soft moans made him tense even more, and you could feel his arousal along the length of your leg, hard and urgent like the rest of his body. 

You were both warm now, and he threw back the blanket before settling back down on top of you, returning to the slow, rhythmic dance of kissing, teasing, and tasting that was just about driving you mad.

You slipped your hands up over your head, thinking to wrap them around him, but he found them and clasped your wrists together with his left hand and kept them there, holding you down with gentle pressure as he bent to kiss you more deeply. 

The sensation of being held by him, of being pinned down, gently, but with no doubt as to his strength, rushed through you in unfamiliar torrents of excitement. He entwined his fingers in yours, easing up the pressure, dipping his head between your upraised arms to kiss you deeply, slowly, torturously.

As his tongue tangled with yours the fingers of his right hand trailed up the side of your body, stopping at the swell of your breast. He ran his hand over you gently, tentatively, feeling the weight of it beneath him and groaning softly. He slipped his hand inside your robe and cupped you bare flesh, his warm hand gently squeezing, caressing, as he groaned again and grew even harder. His thumb circled over your nipple and you gasped, arching against him at the sudden sting of pleasure. He pushed aside the robe further, revealing your breast with its tight nipple, unbearably aroused by his touch.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, gazing at you breast. He lowered his lips to your nipple and gently kissed it, his tongue tasting and savoring it the way he had just been savoring your mouth.

The wet warmth of his mouth on your sensitive flesh made you ache with a tension and desire you had never felt before. When his tongue swirled around you nipple languidly, when he took the sensitive bud into his mouth and suckled softly, you felt the exquisite torture of it flow down through you body to you very core. How could this feel so damn good? Just the lightest brush of his lips, his tongue, his teeth on your nipple and you felt almost ready to climax.

His free hand slid around to the small of your back and he lifted you gently, sliding you further down the couch and farther under him. You were completely beneath him now, and completely held by him, one strong hand gently pressing your wrists into the sofa cushions and the other splayed across you back while he bent his head and kissed and sucked and teased you breast. You almost couldn't bear the sensation as your nipple grew harder, more tender, and the pleasure started liquifying between your legs.

"Yes..." you breathed. You arched again, wanting him to release you from his mouth and yet hoping that he never would. "Oh my God, Bucky, that feels so good..."

Bucky lets go of your wrists and brings his hand down to your other breast, pushing aside your robe to free you completely. He caressed you, sensuously feeling the roundness of you, and trailed his lips across the rising swell, kissing and tasting and smiling at the way your soft flesh moved under his tongue. He gently grasped your breast and brought your nipple up to his mouth, which grew hard and exquisitely tender under his tongue. His fingers continued to tease your other nipple, the one still stinging from the feel of his mouth on it, still aching to feel it again.

You arched into him, sinking your hand into his hair and pressing him to your breast. The pleasure of his mouth and hands on you was making you weak, making you shiver with pleasure and need, all down the length of you and in between your legs. You could feel  yourself growing wet and ready for him, the pleasure so intense, so unlike anything you'd ever felt before.

You heard yourself moaning softly, whimpering, making sounds you had never made before, all but dizzy with desire and sensation. With every little sound you made he groaned, or his erection surged against you, or he fell onto your breasts again with increased hunger. Your response to him was as intoxicating to him as his mouth was to you—you could feel it in his every movement, his every ragged breath.

“I need you, Bucky.” You pleaded softly. “Please.”

He rose over you, bracing his arms on either side of you. His eyes blazed with heat as he looked down at you, at you eyes, your mouth, your breasts. He took your mouth expertly, hungrily, kissing you fiercely with a dominance that thrilled you. He moved to trail hot kisses down your neck, licking the sensitive skin near your collarbone, barely skimming you with his tongue as if wanting the merest taste. You gripped his shoulders, and turned your head to the side, aching at the sensation of his mouth on you, kissing, licking, tasting. 

You moaned at the feel of his tongue on your neck and the gentle pressure of his lips pressing kisses against your skin. You needed to feel him, to taste his salty sweet skin, his maleness, him.

As if he could read your thoughts he lifted up from you to pull his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor. You reached up and ran your hands over his chest, and as he fell on you again his mouth found yours hungrily and his hand slid into your hair, gripping the top of your head possessively as you kissed.

You had never felt so possessed, so taken, so overwhelmed by a man. You broke the kiss and sought his neck, his shoulder, his tense muscles straining as he held himself above you. You branded your own hot trail of kisses into his skin, felt him strain against you at the sensation. You loved the taste of him, so male and wonderful beneath your lips.

"Baby. . ." His voice was hoarse, breathless. 

For one brief moment uncertainty flashed in his eyes and he looked as though he wanted to say something. But when your lips found his again he lost the thought and succumbed to the kiss, slanting over your mouth, teasing your tongue with his.

You ran your hands down his back to the waistband of his boxers, and dipped your hands beneath the elastic to roam over his flesh. He tensed at your touch and you felt him suck in a breath as you moved your hands around to the front. 

He was very hard, and you curled your fingers—which couldn’t wrap around him fully—as you gripped his ass with your other hand. He groaned softly and kissed you even more deeply, surging against you with an almost desperate urgency. You began to stroke him, your fingers gently gliding up and down his smooth shaft until he suddenly let out a groan and broke away, stopping your hand with his own.

“Fuck,” he said breathlessly, heat blazing in his eyes. “I can't. . .”

Alarm flared in you. “What's wrong?”

“I won't last long. . .”

“Oh, is that all?” You gently pushed his hand away and began to tentatively stroke him again.

He moaned, closing his eyes briefly, enjoying the pleasure. “If you keep doing that. . .”

“What?” You prompted, nibbling on his lower lips as you stroked.

“I'll have to fuck you.”

“Good.” You took his lips again and you fell into a rhythmic kiss, as if you had been kissing each other forever. He moaned softly into your mouth as you stroked him, making soft noises of your own into his mouth.

Bucky broke the kiss, his breathing sharp and shallow, and gazed down at you, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Are you sure about this?” His voice was quiet, urgent, almost desperate.

“Yes,” you breathed, pushing his boxers down with your free hand. He lifted up his hips to help you and shrugged out of them, kicking them to the floor.

“I didn't mean for this to happen, at least not tonight,” he said, his breath jagged and quiet as you continued to stroke him. “I've wanted you for so long, but—”

“I know,” You murmured, kissing his neck as your hand slid over his thick length again and again. His body was rigid with tension and you tried to relax him with your mouth, your whispers, the feel of your body. But you knew he wouldn't relax as long as you were stroking him. You paused and he relaxed slightly, but his eyes still burning and his breath still came unevenly.

“Are you sure?” He asked again, his eyes showing fear through the haze of desire. Heat blazed between them, and you felt such a desperate need in him that you wanted to soothe him, comfort him. But doing so with words seemed the wrong thing to do.

"Mhmmm," You murmured instead, kissing his jaw, his neck, the sensitive skin beneath his ear. He groaned softly as you ran your fingers over his shaft, teasing, tempting, letting you fingernails trail along the sensitive skin below. You cupped him and squeezed gently as he groaned louder, pleasure that sounded almost painful. you laughed softly, kissing along his collarbone, his shoulder, his neck.

“You know how I feel about you. . . ” he managed, his voice little more than a breath. “Don't you? That I—”

"Shhhh," You said, coming back to meet his eyes. He looked so afraid, so vulnerable, and yet so filled with desire. You knew, then, everything you needed to know. And every word he needed to hear. "Please. . . Baby. . .it's okay. We can talk later. Right now. . .please. . . just shut up and fuck me."

His fear melted into a smile so warm, so open, so full of relief that he almost looked ready to cry. He took your mouth again, arching over you as he claimed you. Before his kisses had been searching and sensuous, now they seemed driven by pure desire. He ground his lips on yours  masterfully, taking what he wanted, what he needed.

You could feel the raw need in him, the need for acceptance, the need to let pure passion overcome his fear. Every meeting of your lips sent another jolt through you, every taste of his tongue made you desperate for more, and you knew he was reeling from the same powerful sensations that you were. You could feel him starting to let go, to abandon himself to you, to enjoy making you abandon  yourself to him. 

Here was the lust you had always hoped was there, the powerful sexuality always just below the surface, the desire you had hoped and prayed he felt for you. It was here, pressed against you, an urgent cock and a hard, warm body, roaming lips and soft, male moans of pleasure and need. A careful heart revealing itself to yours.

You moved beneath him, pressing your hips against him to ease the heat that radiated from between your legs. The ache was exquisite, your need growing more urgent as you felt his erection surge and strengthen.

You felt his hand on your knee and then slowly, so damn slowly, he began to trail his fingers up along the inside of your thighs, which parted so easily at his gentle persuasion. His touch was electric, yet soft and sensual, and wherever his fingers played you felt a fiery tingle that made you shiver. Finally his fingers trailed delicately over your sensitive cunt, teasing you, tantalizing you, until you cried softly, silently begging him to touch you most sensitive place.

With a smile that you could feel more than see, his fingers slipped into your slick warmth and you cried out, a spasm of pleasure overwhelming you. He silenced your cry with his mouth, his tongue tangling with yours  while his fingers slipped deeply inside you and stroked, as languidly and rhythmically as you were stroking him.

“Oh my g—” You cried, writhing at the pleasure of his fingers sliding slowly in and out of you, then pulling out to trail up higher and caress your folds. When his fingers danced over your clit you arched you back, your breath leaving you in a gasp. The electricity of his touch, so gentle and sensuous, sent spasms of pleasure rippling through you. 

He didn't hurry the pace, just stroked you with an even, sensual rhythm as he kissed  you. He was holding you, his arm surrounding you, pressing his body to yours, his mouth never far from your lips, your neck, your ear, his eyes never far from yours. You had never felt so close to someone, so protected in his arms, so cherished and adored.

His fingers dipped down to enter you again and his thumb continued the slow, exquisite torture above. Just when you thought you'd go over the edge he'd pull away, pause, caress a different part of you and send you on the upward spiral again and again, or slide his fingers into you over and over while his thumb swirled and caressed and rubbed, driving you mad with an aching desire. 

He smiled down at you, nipped at your lips, pressed his forehead to yours and trailed kisses down your eyelids, your cheeks, until claiming your mouth again, his tongue mimicking the sweet, sensuous motion of his fingers and thumb.

He grew rock hard in your hand as you moaned with each breath, as you came closer and closer to the edge. You could feel him restraining himself, wanting only to pleasure you, anticipating your climax. But it wasn't what you wanted. On a ragged breath you stopped his hand.

"I want you," you said urgently. "Please, Bucky. . .fuck me."

He gazed at you, teetering on a moment of indecision. His chest rose and fell sharply with his labored breath, and he brought a trembling hand up to your hip and gripped you, holding you, moving to settle between your legs and pausing at your entrance.

"Please, I want you inside me." your voice dropped to a whisper so urgent you hardly recognized it yourself. "Please don't make me beg."

And whatever strength he had left vanished.

"Oh baby. . ." He moved forward and slid into you, a breathless throaty sound of pure male pleasure escaping his lips. "Oh my God. . ."

He paused for a moment, looking down at you with heavy-lidded desire, visibly enjoying the new sensation of being so deep inside  you. You were slick and hot, more than ready for him, and as you body adjusted to him, to the exquisite, aching stretch he was causing, you squirmed beneath him on a moan of primal pleasure. He pulled out slowly, torturously, and slid himself in again, filling you completely.

You closed your eyes and moaned, gripping his ass as he lifted your hips up to him, angling you so he could fill you more deeply. He began to thrust, slowly, rhythmically, his hips moving sensuously, making you muscles tighten around him as he plunged into you again and again, your movements coming so easily, so naturally, so deliciously slowly.

You lifted your legs to wrap them around him, loving the way it tilted you back so that his every thrust felt deeper, felt like it was reaching new depths of pleasure in you.

“Yes, yes, yes. . .like that. . .oh my god, Bucky. . .you fill me up so good.” 

He ran his hand possessively along your leg, pausing to look down at your joined bodies as he thrust into you. He raised himself up, his arms braced on the other side of you to keep his weight off you, and moved so he could thrust more freely, more quickly, building the tempo. He pressed his lips to your forehead gently as he drove into you, his breath ragged, panting, yours matching his intensity and need.

“Ugh—you drive me insane, I love hearing you moan my name—don’t stop.”

You could feel him getting close, nearing the edge of his own release, and he slowed, lowering his head to nuzzle your neck as the rhythm of his hips paused, and then resumed again, more slowly this time, building again, savoring you body the way his lips had savored you mouth, the way his tongue had devoured you breasts. His arm slid around you back again, holding you, lifting you up to him as he took your breast in his mouth and teased it with his tongue. His mouth was hungrier this time, sucking your nipple, flicking his tongue over it with such abandon that you felt it in your core. His passion was growing, and you could sense that his desire to be slow and tender with you was losing the battle against his raw primitive need.

You gripped him, lost in the dizzying sensations he was causing in you. His mouth on you, his hand roaming over you, gripping your ass as he thrust into you in a relentless rhythm. You were limp in his embrace, held in place for him to possess, to plunder, to pleasure. You had never been held like that before, and the primal intensity of it, the feeling of being so completely owned by his desire, overwhelmed  you. You were his, completely, your body as loose as a rag doll in his arms. You gripped his straining arms as he sent pleasure coursing through you, gripping you as he thrust and withdrew, plunged and pulled out, drove into you over and over again in breathless ecstasy.

“Keep fucking me like that—Yes! Oh my God, harder, please. . . B-Bucky!”

Waves of pleasure grew stronger and stronger in you, pushing you towards the ultimate pleasure, building with increasing urgency as his rhythm grew faster and harder. 

“Oh—like that? You like that?”

He groaned as he kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breast, and drove himself into you with such exquisite need. You gripped his buttocks, feeling the powerful muscles contracting with each thrust, drawing him deeper into you. When he tore away from your lips and looked down into your eyes you felt the waves rise, growing stronger and higher and faster until with a shattered cry you came, trembling as the pleasure spasmed through you.

His eyes never left yours as he thrust into you, groaning from the exquisite pleasure of your spasming pussy. 

“Shit—fuck, you’re gonna make me come. Ohhhh—” Bucky moaned.

You were so incredibly tight, gripping his cock as you came, milking him as he struggled to last just a moment longer, lost in the heaven of you hot, wet heat. Your cries of pleasure echoed throughout the darkened room and when you whispered his name on a soft, sweet whimper he found his own release, jetting into you over and over again as he cried out in an agony of pleasure and a torrent, a chorus, of your name.

Finally, finally, his hips slowed and he lowered his head and kissed you gently, sensuously, as softly as he had when he had first pulled you down to him. Then he lowered his head to your neck and let himself rest there, lying against you, his heart thundering, his breath ragged and heavy. You lowered your legs from around his waist and wrapped your arms around him instead, cradling him to  you. you rested your head against the top of his and felt your own breath slowing, your own heartbeat returning to normal. His cock was still hard inside you and he shuddered as you clenched around him.

"God, you're incredible." He exhaled a long, deep breath.

He rose up and kissed you, shuddering with each aftershock as his cock surged inside  you. You could feel your inner muscles clenching around him, not releasing him yet, teasing the last drops of pleasure from him. 

He lay his head down against you again, breathing out a sigh that was both release and contentment as the last tremors rippled through him. You loved this feeling, this sensation of his body trembling with the afterglow of pleasure, pleasure you had given him, just as your body was tingling from the intense pleasure he had given you.

He held you to him, sliding out of you slowly, and shifted slightly so that you fit against him perfectly, settling into the warmth and comfort of his arms encircling you.

“Holy shit,” he whispered again, pressing his lips to your temple and leaving them there for a long minute before letting go.

“I'm so glad you stayed over,” you said quietly, kissing the soft skin of his neck.

He stilled for a moment, and you looked up at him, trying to read whatever might be revealed in his eyes. In the darkness both of you were inscrutable, until he leaned closer and bumped your cheek with his nose before lightly pressing his lips to yours for a sweet, soulful kiss.

“So does this mean we're not friends anymore?” He asked, in between luscious nips at your lips.

“You tell me,” you said sleepily, unable to resist his slow, savoring kisses.

You felt his smile as he kissed you languidly, with deliberate slowness, each kiss deepening into something more intimate than the last. Finally his lips stilled and you felt him fall asleep beside you, his breathing soft and slow.

You wanted to stay awake, to freeze this moment in time, to make it last. you wished you could lay there forever, tucked in beside him, your bodies curled to get you. But even as you tried to stay awake, gently caressing the arm that draped over you protectively. you gradually succumbed to a peaceful, contented sleep.

[sugarrrvenomm]

is somebody gonna match my freak? // obi-wan x reader

sorry i couldn't help it with the title LMAO

word count: 3k

summary: this is disgusting <3

PS if u want me to make a taglist and would like to be on it leave a reply !!

In the beginning, Obi-Wan felt guilty; depraved. He was a Jedi Knight, had been a Jedi Knight for many years—while you still wore a braid in your hair. It wasn’t necessarily written anywhere that having sexual relations with Padawans was against the rules, but if he was being honest with himself, he knows that’s because it’s the kind of expectation that is so obvious no one thought it even needed to put in writing. Still, the fact that it wasn’t explicitly forbidden didn’t do much to quell his shame.

And in the end, his shame didn’t do much—or anything at all, really—to stop him from fucking you. 

In his defense, you made the first move. Drunk off the single glass of wine your Master had allowed you during the Temple’s Life Day celebrations. Anakin had slunk off to Force knows where, and Obi-Wan was content with standing at the edge of the grand banquet hall, making sure no one got too reckless, taking another drink every time a server-droid buzzed passed him, and watching you. 

You’d greeted him earlier, twirling in your little white dress that certainly wasn’t Jedi issued. It was becoming more and more common for younger Jedi to scrap together fabric into their own personalized garments—apparently it didn’t bother the Council enough to do anything about it. And it certainly didn’t bother Obi-Wan, especially when the fabric was so thin he could tell very easily you weren’t wearing a bra. 

“What do you think?” You’d asked, smiling with teeth as white as the dress. 

Obi-Wan had cleared his throat, biting back the first few entirely inappropriate responses that came to him, before answering, “You’re very creative.”

The way you deflated slightly, clearly expecting a little more, bothered him more than it should have, so he smiled as genuinely as he could, and added, “Go enjoy the party, little one.” And then you blushed, like you always did when he called you that. Without another word, you had turned on your heel and did exactly as he said. He’d be lying if he said the obedience wasn’t a turn on. 

All night he watched you, and when you finally started to drift toward the exit, he made sure to be there so he could ask, “Would you like me to walk you back?”

The yes he got in response wasn’t very surprising. The way you had kissed him at the door of your quarters was, though. Obi-Wan couldn’t even enjoy it—instinctively pulling back and looking around to see if anyone had witnessed it. No one had, but you were grabbing at his tunics, trying to get his attention, and he’d pushed you inside of your rooms with the intention fo simply getting the two of you away from any prying eyes that may come. 

And once the door slid shut behind the both of you, and you were truly alone—he couldn’t help himself. Obi-Wan leant down and pressed your lips together, groaning low in his chest, walking you back until you were against the door, and slid his tongue into your mouth so you could taste him. You made such sweet, little noises—some of surprise, like you’d never done this before, and that made him roll his hips, desperate to get any kind of friction on his thick, swelling cock. 

When he’d done that, you’d pulled back, blinking up at him all doe-eyed with your lips pink and swollen. “I’m a virgin,” you said, in one quiet breath. 

Obi-Wan was far from a virgin, but he certainly felt like one for a moment, the words arousing him so much he feared he might finish in his pants right then and there. 

“That’s alright,” he managed to tell you, cupping your pretty face, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “Nothing has to happen.” As much as I’d like it to, he left out. 

You’d sent him away with another kiss, and he wondered if when the morning came, you’d regret it. He never got a direct answer for that—you carried on almost entirely as if it had never happened when the two of you were around each other. If it wasn’t for Obi-Wan’s frequent replaying of the memory while he stroked his cock at night, he might have thought he imagined it.

Then, you were assigned a mission together. 

Obi-Wan knew Anakin found you tolerable at least, so he only gave him a warning to be on his best behavior—for most of the mission, the two of you only spoke when necessary, while Obi-Wan and your Master were more comfortable with each other. Or, used to be. Obi-Wan had trouble looking the other Jedi in the eye after kissing you. When the mission was completed, the four of you boarded the ship once more, Anakin in the cockpit navigating you away form the planet, while the rest settled in. 

Even while wrapped up in a conversation with your Master, Obi-Wan’s focus was on you. The other Jedi stood in front of Obi-Wan, so he couldn’t see what you were doing behind him, but Obi-Wan could. Obi-Wan could see the way you cleaned your lightsaber hilt, could see the way you removed the emergency medical supplies and rations from your belt and put them back in their proper place. 

Obi-Wan could see you bend over to take your boots off, and the way your panties clung to your little cunt. 

A Jedi in a skirt wasn’t a completely foreign sight, though most chose to wear leggings underneath. Obi-Wan had assumed you’d skipped them due to the heat of the planet, but had also assumed it was at least the kind of skirt with little shorts sewn in underneath. For practicality’s sake. He’d assumed wrong, of course. You had done this on purpose. There was no denying it when you turned your head to look at him, still bent over, and bit your lip.

As soon as your Master moved a muscle, you were up again, straightening yourself and bowing respectfully as he walked away to another area of the ship. When he was gone, you resumed your position, hands around your ankles. “I’m ready for something to happen now, Master Kenobi,” you said. 

Possessed, Obi-Wan took long strides to reach you as quickly as possible, grabbing your hips, thumbing your skirt up to see more of you. “I thought you were a virgin,” he breathed out, eyes glued to the place where your underwear hugged your slit, outlining the folds of your pussy. 

“I am,” you pouted, turning to look at him.

Obi-Wan ran a thumb over your center, his cock twitching. “Then how are you so fucking filthy?”

“Because of you.”

In response, Obi-Wan cursed, and cupped your pussy with a big hand. “Is that so?”

“Yes, yes!” You whined, and he let you rock yourself back, trying to make him rub you. “I always think of you when I—when I—“ you started, but you couldn’t seem to finish. 

“When you touch yourself?” Obi-Wan asked, taking his hand away as you nodded eagerly. He gripped your hips again, and pushed his own forward, after lifting his tunics out of the way so the bulge of his hard cock in his trousers could press snug and hot against your needy, covered cunt. “Me too, little one. Every time I touch my cock I’m thinking of you; of your darling face and this tight fucking virgin pussy,” he gritted out, humping against you with the last words, making you tip forward and claw at the wall in front of you. 

“Master Kenobi,” you mewled. “Please, touch me.”

Obi-Wan wanted to. He desperately wanted to. He wanted to pull down your underwear and have you right here, pop your cherry and make you his. But he couldn’t.

“I can’t fuck you, little one,” he breathed out.

You made a bratty, unhappy noise. “Why not?” 

“You’ll scream,” he bent over and whispered in your ear. 

♡♡♡♡♡

Eventually, Obi-Wan does take your virginity, and lets you scream all you’d like. Laid back in his bed, clawing at his hair while he rubs the drippy, pink head of his cock over your center, tapping your clit and barely pushing into your cunt. 

“Do you think it’ll even fit?” He asks. It’s not just dirty talk—he really doesn’t know for sure. You’re so tiny, and untouched, and his cock is quite big. Your eyes had gone wide when he first took it out, and he’d sat you on his lap and let you play with it until he couldn’t stand it anymore. Now, he sinks the tip of it into your pussy, and even as sloppy wet as you are, he wonders. 

“It will, it will,” you chant, trying to push down on it. Adorable.

He rubs a thumb over your clit to make you settle, then coos at you, “It’s alright if it doesn’t—little girls have tight, little pussies. You’ll just need practice, darling.” The words just pour out of him, so obscene he shocks himself a bit. It seems that all his guilt has turned into filth, and the very things he used to be ashamed of are now the very things he finds the most arousing. The braid in your hair, your untouched body, your innocence. 

Still, he indulges you, and as it would turn out, you were right. It does fit. It’s so tight that Obi-Wan feels as if his dick might break off, but that only makes him more determined to open your pussy up for him. As you cry and whine and chant his name, he fucks you into the mattress, pounding away at your cunt and groaning at the sounds the two of you make together; obnoxiously wet. 

What makes him come is the realization that you haven’t even inquired about a condom, not even once. Obi-Wan had a vasectomy years ago, but you certainly don’t know that. For all you know, he’s about to knock you up. In his mind, he sees you, sat on his lap with your back to his chest, letting him bounce you up and down on his cock, your sweet belly swollen with his baby. His cock pushes out another weak spurt when he imagines your Master walking in on it. 

With his cock softening inside of you, he rubs your clit and laves his tongue over your nipples. “Sweet girl, come all over me. I want to feel my little one come,” he orders. And you do; so obedient.

♡♡♡♡♡

Obi-Wan can’t stop taking firsts from you after that, especially with how you want it. Messaging him whenever you’re away from each other about how you can’t live without his cock and his tongue and his hands. Every moment your Master is away, you’re at his door, and Obi-Wan thanks the Force that Anakin’s teenage mood swings have led him to making himself scarce in their free time—it means Obi-Wan gets to have you however he’d like.

He gets you bouncing on his cock, just like he imagined, minus the pregnancy. His hands tucked under your knees, spreading you and opening you up so he can fuck you up and down on his fat cock until you squirt all over the mirror he’s set the two of you in front of. 

“Clean it up,” he tells you, pulling you off his cock and setting you on the floor. 

Without hesitation, you crawl over, and he’s torn between where he wants to look—your glistening pussy, pink and puffy from use, or your tongue, licking along the dirty mirror, unashamed. You do it so easily that he gets an idea, getting on the floor himself and stuffing himself back inside of you aggressively, fucking into you messily, watching the way your ass ripples until he’s about to come—then he quickly pulls out, stands, and tugs at his cock until his milky spend is dripping down the mirror. 

He grabs you by the hair and guides you to it, “Mm,” he hums, pleased at the way you moan and eagerly lick it up and swallow it all down. “Little come slut.” His cock is stirring to life again already, and he rubs it against your cheek, tapping your swollen lips with it. “Next time, I’ll fill you up and you can be my come dump, too.”

♡♡♡♡♡

When forced into situations with your Master, Obi-Wan really loathes how you obey the other Jedi so readily. He knows you should, and he knows he’s being unreasonable. It doesn’t stop him from ordering you to come to his quarters before your Master awakes, so he can swirl his tongue over the pretty little rim of the only hole he hasn’t touched yet. He moans against your skin, shoving his tongue inside of you and drooling all over his beard, lost in it until your com goes off, signaling that your Master’s awake. 

Obi-Wan can barely stand it—sending you away without coming, your precious cunt so soaked it’s surely going to show even through your leggings. 

It’s a consolation when he visits the training salles later and knows you’re going through all your katas with a plug in your ass, put there by him. Sparring with your Master while your entrance clenches around it and your pussy drools helplessly all the while. 

On the days there’s no time for such things, he strokes his cock while you’re on your way over. The only thing you do when you arrive is tug your panties down, and Obi-Wan comes all over the inside of them. He pulls them up your legs, smiling at the way they immediately become transparent and stick to you. 

“Does it feel yucky?” He asks.

You rub your thighs together and nod. “I like it, though.”

Pride swells in Obi-Wan’s chest and he kisses your forehead, while one hand reaches back under your skirt to massage your cunt, rubbing his seed all over your folds and the swollen button of your tiny clit. “Good girl. You keep that nice and warm for me all day, okay?”

You rock into his touch, and he sends you off with a smack to your ass. All day, he imagines you humping your seat during your lessons.

♡♡♡♡♡

Obi-Wan eats your pussy from the back, because you make him nasty like that. He bends you over a table in a dark corner of the archives and kneels behind you, shoving his face between your legs and trying to see if he can make you squirt in public.

He can. He sucks greedily at your clit and sends you an image through the Force of him doing this right in the middle of one of the Temple’s grand hallways, and you come so hard he has to take off his robe and sop up your mess from the table and the floor. 

Perhaps it’s a bit hypocritical, spanking you for such a stunt when you get back to his quarters, because really, it’s his own fault—but he does it anyway. 

“Naughty, naughty girl. You’re so filthy I’m beginning to think you’d let anyone do that to you. Is that true, little one? When I’m not around, do you flash your pussy to other Jedi? Is your little cunt so insatiable that you’d hump the boot of anyone that offered?” Obi-Wan knows none of these things are true; he knows as well as you do that you belong to him, but you blush so pretty and your cunt drips so much when he talks like this, so he always does. 

When your ass is red and you begin to cry, he pulls you into his lap and lets you rock against his thigh until you’ve calmed down. You suck on his tongue like it’s candy and rub your tits against his hairy chest.

Eventually, you pull back and pinch your own nipples, before pushing your breasts together and looking at him from under your eyelashes. “Do you think you could fuck me here?”

Obi-Wan throws you on the bed so fiercely he fears for a moment that he hurt you, but then you’re moaning and playing with your tits again, sticking your tongue out like a whore to beckon him closer. Rather than lube his cock up, he shoves it in your mouth and lets you wet it for him. You’ve gotten so good at this, you barely gag, even when your nose is buried in the auburn thatch of hair above his cock. 

When he fucks your tits, it’s more about the fact that you’ve asked him to do it, rather than the physical sensation of it. Sweet Padawan, little one, hugging her breasts around the cock of a man twice her age while she goes crosseyed and cockdumb. 

Obi-Wan’s mouth gets away from him, but he knows you love it. “Imagine if your Master could see you right now—he wouldn’t believe his little girl likes to suck my cock and empty my balls over her tits.”

He does just that, and then asks you to stick your tongue out again so he can take a holo of you, come on your tits and eyes glazed over. 

♡♡♡♡♡

“Think your cute little pussy can handle daddy’s big fat cock?”

He doesn’t know which one of you started the daddy thing, but it drives the both of you crazy. The fantasies where you just plain call him dad, he keeps to himself. 

You’re on all fours on his bed, and you reach between your legs to spread your cunt for him. 

“I can take anything you give me, daddy,” you say sweetly, and Obi-Wan knows it’s true. 

[azrielbrainrot]

I Laugh Like Me Again... She Laughs Like You - Part 8

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Description: You struggle to come to terms with your supposed death, everything you've had and everything you've lost, all the blood that stains your hands, a mating bond, and most importantly, finding your place in the world after all of it.

Warnings: Feelings of depression, suicide ideation, a hint of social anxiety and agoraphobia, awful self image, all around angst sorry, some depictions of violence

Word Count: 6860

Notes: I actually got a little too lost in my head writing this chapter but it ended up being somewhat cathartic writing my feelings through someone else's. It ended up taking me longer than expected to finish this part though, I'm sorry for the wait. Hope you enjoy!

Part 7

You can feel him sitting by your door. Even if the deafening mating bond weren't screaming in elation at his proximity, the enhanced senses you've exhausted yourself training for in that Gods forsaken guild would have let you know. You don't deserve any of it. Not his worry, not his loyalty or his love, certainly not the bond. Maybe you had, a long time ago, but that female was ripped away from you, from him.

The shadowsinger probably paints a tragic picture. Sitting on the cold floor, back against the closed, heavy door, hunched over his own body, powerful wings laying by his sides, waiting for a selfish mate who will not open the door no matter how much he pleads or how long he waits, who can barely bring herself to get out of bed, let alone face the male whose life she brought nothing but ruin and heartache.

Ever since Rhys tore down the walls keeping your memories away, there has been a war raging inside you, one in which there will be no victors. It has been eating you away from the inside. You feel like two people have lived in this body before, led completely different lives, and have now abandoned it for you to deal with the scraps and somehow put the pieces back together.

It's almost impossible to keep up with the passing of time as you are. Weeks, maybe even months could have passed since that day. There was a sense of relief when the walls first came crumbling down, even happiness when you saw Azriel and recognized him as the male you loved beyond words, but everything else rushed into your mind the next moment and rendered you speechless.

One moment you had been sitting in Azriel's lap, and in the next the breath was knocked out of your lungs, and a deep ache spread over your body. It felt like your entire being was on fire and drowning at the same time as you saw numerous people die at your hands. It felt foreign, you felt foreign. You started clawing at your own skin, trying to get that hateful person out, ripping your flesh apart desperately. You don't remember what happened next, though you vaguely recall Azriel's anguished screams. Rhys had probably come and rendered you unconscious, effectively calming you down and giving you what must have been the last peaceful night of sleep since then.

You don't know who you are anymore. You can't be sure if you ever did. All those years ago, when you married Azriel, you thought you knew exactly who you were, what your values and aspirations were, how you'd spend your life. You had plans and dreams. It all feels like one giant, heartbreakingly realistic fantasy now, like that life in itself was an idealistic dream.

Looking back now, you know you had simply been sheltered. You had led a privileged life, protected by your parents when they were alive and then by Azriel. Because the person you so easily became when Norris took you had to be living under your skin all along, waiting for an opportunity to show her claws. Someone can't do even half of the things you've done if they had been truly good to begin with. Norris had simply coaxed this hateful, bloodthirsty monster out of you.

Perhaps you should have thanked him before you killed him, if it weren't for him you would have kept living that lie until your last breath. You would have tried tampering it down until you couldn't anymore, until that vile thing ripped open your skin, escaped its bounds and destroyed everything in its path. Would you have hurt Azriel if you had stayed? Killed his entire family in cold blood? The family who took you in like you were one of their own, who were there for you to show you love and happiness when you thought you had lost everything with your parents' deaths.

And what now? Which one were you now, if any at all? You know you're far from the starry eyed female who walked these halls a century ago, arm looped into her loving husband's, who was ready to face any challenge that was put in front of her so long as he stayed by her side. Who dreamt of buying a house and decorating it to both of their tastes, who planned a life by his side down to the last detail. In sickness and in health, in life and in death. What a joke.

The fearless killer was a stranger to you as well. She'd committed atrocities with this body, soaked your hands in blood, but she at least had a purpose, even if she hadn't been the one to find it for herself. The guild trained her, made her strong, and gave her missions. Her life had some sort of meaning, one even she wasn't proud of, no matter how many times she forced herself to emulate her handler, swallow down the guilt that threatened to eat her whole, but a meaning nonetheless. When she eventually snapped she would become one of the few who had been stupid enough to try and escape the guild, maybe even try to paint her blade with Norris' blood. That alone would have meant something, if only a whispered rumor across the guild's low ranks in between missions.

All you were now was a ghost. Slowly fading into the wallpaper, sinking into the bed. Spending your days staring into space, consumed by your own betraying thoughts, suffering through your nights as nightmares reigned free inside your brain. The worst part is they weren't simply nightmares. They were memories, your memories. You had lived through every single haunting image being shown to you. The blood coating your body, covering you in a sickenly metallic smell, had been spilled by your masterful blade, and you had walked away from every single one of those lifeless bodies, leaving them behind without a care as you searched for your handler once more, giving him news of yet another successful mission and awaiting a new one, a new life for you to take.

A sudden knock on the door brings you back to the present, somewhat. Your head turning to face the door, the first movement in a while judging by the ache that follows it. The knock had been soft, careful not to startle you - he's always so careful with you, even after everything, - but in the deafening silence of the room, it still echoed, making your headache worse.

Azriel calls your name, the way the syllables escape his lips sending a shiver down your spine. Even in this state the bond finds a way to make itself known, reminding you of the connection between the two of you, as if you could ever forget.

“I know you can hear me,” he murmurs. You can hear how defeated he is, how sad you've made him once again. It's all your fault, it's always your fault. “Like I told you yesterday, I'm here for you. I will help you through anything as long as you let me, as long as you want me by your side.”

He pauses for a moment, in case you'll give him a response for once. You envy his hope. If you had the courage to hope for even a second maybe you would have called out his name and invited him in, let him hold you in his warm embrace, and make it better, but hope had died along with you and you didn't know how to get it back, didn't know if you wanted to.

A pained sigh escapes him, resigning himself, for the night at least. “I'll come back tomorrow, and every day after that. I promise I will be here when you need me.” You hear him swallow, can feel him trying to steady his voice and keep strong for you in a time when you can't find any strength in yourself. “I love you, more than anything.”

His soft steps retreat, slowly dragging his body away from your door so he can go into his own room and lay in his own empty bed, far away from the wife who he thought he had just gotten back after a century but can't bring herself to even look at him.

The bond screams in your chest, a piercing sound that could make your ears bleed at its intensity. A tear escapes your unblinking eye, running down your skin until it loses its path as it reaches your ear, ultimately falling into the mattress. And still you don't move.

You study the lifeless body in front of you, inspecting the female's beautiful kohl lined brown eyes as they stare right at you unblinking. Listening for the sound of her breath or heartbeat, a sound you know will not come, never again. She had on an elegant silk dress, it was once a shade of green, now tainted with red. She was probably going to meet someone - her friends or her lover, maybe her family. Whoever it was wouldn't see her again, would only be left with bittersweet memories.

Reaching over her, you pull the blade still stuck in her chest out in one smooth, heartless movement. As you go to clean the blood off so you can put it away and escape, you take note of the knife in your hand, frowning down at it as you study the hilt, too intricate to belong to your standard knives. There was even a blue gem encrusted on it, you had never seen let alone owned anything like this.

Looking up, you find strangely familiar hazel eyes staring at you, unblinking as that female's had been. Your eyes travel to the knife in your hand once again as your brain races to keep up with the situation. It's coated in blood, you hadn't wiped it yet, so were your hands, there was so much blood. Your breath catches in your throat when you find a wedding ring around your finger, the blue gem shining under the moonlight.

The knife falls from your hands. Tears cloud your vision, a broken sob escaping you. Azriel. The corpse in front of you belonged to Azriel. You killed him. You killed your husband, your mate. It was all your fault.

You open your eyes with a gasping breath as if you'd been stuck under water. The image of your dead mate refusing to leave your mind as tears keep running down your cheeks, chest rising and falling as if you'd been physically running from this nightmare. It takes you quite a while to fully come to and realize where you were - sitting up in your bed, and not in an empty alley with a dead body at your feet.

It takes you even longer to notice you were not alone anymore. Wide eyes find teary, hazel ones searching your face frantically. As soon as you see him, it becomes impossible to ignore the way his rough hands hold you up, the soothing words he whispers even when he himself looks terrified

Unlike in that awful nightmare, Azriel stood before you breathing. He was blinking, and his heart was beating. Azriel was alive. He was right in front of you and he was alive. You hadn't killed him. The realization finally allows you to catch your breath, the weight at the base of your skull subsiding as you repeat the words over and over in your mind, counting the beats of his heart as you did.

The relief was short-lived though. The reminder that you had stabbed him in real life not so differently from how it happened in your dream making you reel back, back crashing into the headboard hard enough that it almost knocked the wind out of you, his hands dropping from their comforting grip on your head, the heartbroken expression on his face intensifying.

You're both frozen like that for a few seconds, your wide eyes watching his every movement as he stood kneeling down in front of you, hands stuck in the same place like you hadn't moved from under them. Even in the midst of all the chaos taking your mind hostage, you noticed the fear in his eyes. Was he afraid of you? He should be. Though you're not so sure that was the case since he tried reaching for you again as soon as he was pulled out of his stupor.

It makes you recoil even further into the headboard, a sob escaping you, recalling the image of his lifeless body playing in your dream and the way his blood stained your skin in the townhouse only a few weeks ago.

Tears flow down your cheeks with a new vigor when he calls out your name, an heartbreaking sound. You remember how much you loved to hear him whisper your name in that low, sweet timbre of his. It makes your chest tighten uncomfortably, until you can barely breathe now.

“Please leave,” you manage to push out.

“Wait.”

“You can't be here.”

Wrapping your arms around your legs, you hope he listens. You can't hurt him anymore than you already have, couldn't bear to live with yourself if you did, and for that you need him to go, need him to be out of your tainting reach.

“Please, my love. Let me take care of you,” he begs, his own tears escaping freely now.

My love. The way he says it so carefully, so sure of himself makes you sob harder. You don't deserve his love, his attention or care, you never did. And he doesn't deserve any of this pain, so you need him to go, you have to push him away.

“I can't…” Why are the words so hard to say? Why can't you just tell him to go and never come back? “Please,” you manage through a sob, an ugly sound in the back of your throat, hiding your face in your knees.

Azriel closes his eyes, salty tears running down his heartbroken face. He tightens his grip on the sheets for a moment, hard enough that his knuckles turn white. Telling himself to stay, or maybe forcing himself to accept your dismissal.

“I'll go,” he whispers out after a while, opening his eyes at last, defeated, “but if you need me just call out and I'll be back in a heartbeat, alright?”

You don't answer him, your entire concentration going into keeping your eyes off him. Trying desperately to push not only the haunting nightmare down, but also the mating bond, who demanded you seek comfort from your mate while you were trying so hard to push him away.

He gets up slowly, dragging his feet as he walks to the door, looking back at you multiple times as if he can't bear to leave you alone like this, as if begging you to call him back, but you've made your decision and you won't call out to him no matter how desperate you are.

“I was thinking it would be a good idea to bring you up to Rhys' cabin for a few days. You can stay in your room or go outside on your own, and I promise you won't even have to see me if you don't want to,” Azriel explains tentatively through the closed door. “It wouldn't be much different from being here except you could take in the fresh air of the mountain. You always used to love it up there, said it helped you think more clearly.”

This conversation hadn't come out of nowhere and it certainly wasn't entirely about a simple change of scenery - though you wouldn't be surprised if it doubled as a way of trying to get out of this room if nothing else. They were unsure about keeping you in this house, in Velaris even. You overheard part of their discussion on the subject, the tricks you've learned at the guild proving themselves useful at least as you approached the room without them noticing.

You had been curious when you felt most of the inner circle's presence in the house. For a moment, you had even panicked, thinking they would try to talk to you, maybe a form of intervention, but when it was clear they would all keep their distance, you couldn't stop yourself from eavesdropping on their conversation. You had already known it would be about you, or maybe the guild, for them to gather up in the House of Wind.

Given your current apathy and insistence on distancing yourself from everyone, they were worried about keeping you so high up in the mountain. No one had actually said the words, but the implication was clear, - if you so wished, all you had to do was open the window and let yourself fall through the wind, finding your sweet release as you crashed into the ground. And, even with some of their vehement denials, it was painfully obvious that they were all scared of it becoming a reality.

They had moved onto the topic of moving you off Velaris as well, almost at Azriel's insistence. They thought the city could be too suffocating for you since you seemed to want to be alone with your thoughts. And so the idea of moving you to the cabin for a while came up at Feyre's suggestion. You zoned out when they started trying to decide on the best way to bring it up to you, knowing you would refuse the offer no matter how it was brought up. The thought of making the trip there was exhausting on its own.

Azriel's shadows had definitely noticed you spying on the inner circle. You saw them swirling by your hiding spot in the hallway multiple times, lingering for a moment before moving closer to the door. You can't be sure if they had not alerted their singer out of their own volition, or if he had chosen to let you hear the conversation.

You knew he would be more than happy for you to step into the office and speak for yourself, but you barely had to give it any thought to decide against it. You didn't see the point in it. They were right about your lack of will to be alive. You genuinely couldn't bring yourself to care if you were in this house or the next, in Velaris or on the other side of the world, if they were the ones to decide it or not so long as they left you alone.

Truthfully, you didn't quite see the point in living either, and at the same time killing yourself felt like too much of a hassle. Not to mention that Azriel wouldn't survive your death this time, and hurting him was the last thing you wanted to do. Just the thought sent the bond into disarray, a weight growing in your chest and taking your breath away.

You hadn't spoken more than a few sentences to Azriel in all the weeks you've been here so you obviously haven't told him about the bond. The downside of that is that you don't know if he's felt it himself either. He has been devoted to you to say the least, but he always had, even before you died. Azriel always treated you like you were his entire world.

As if processing all your memories wasn't enough, the bond had somehow made things even more complicated. Every happy memory of the two of you together sent the bond almost vibrating with joy, pushing you to go and see him when all you wanted to do was disappear in this room. It makes you feel like you're not fully in charge of your body, just as it felt like watching back your memories at the guild.

“What do you think?”

His voice brings you back to the present once more. Your eyes finding the closed door, imagining him leaning against it on the other side, forehead leaning against the dark, carved wood, praying for an answer he knows won't come.

You consider saying something, to at least let him know you wanted to stay here just as you were, but your body wasn't agreeing with you, refusing to move or form out the words even if you were asking it to. You knew it would be better to refuse his offer, not only because you knew he wouldn't force you to leave if you told him you didn't want to, but also because hearing you speak after so long could lessen their worries, his worries. Still, you couldn't force yourself to even move your mouth.

Azriel lets out a sigh, that heartbreakingly defeated sound you've grown so used to, taking your silence as an answer. You hear him swallow, pushing back the tears and the heaviness you could almost feel in your own heart.

“It's alright,” he breathes out, “Just let me know if you change your mind.”

Alright. You were starting to grow a distaste for the word. How could it be alright when you've done nothing but hurt him? You disappeared on him for decades on decades, making him think you were dead while you were off killing people for money. Only to come back and try to steal from Rhys, stab him and then ignore him after they helped you recover your memories. He has been sitting at your doorstep multiple hours a day for weeks without getting as much as an answer. How is any of this alright?

You wish he would just forget about you. Maybe then you wouldn't feel so guilty for all you've done.

If it weren't for the magic pumping through this house your bath would have been freezing cold by now. The perfectly warm, lavender scented water the House provided almost pissed you off, and so did the oils and balms it presented you, urging you to take care of yourself when it was the last thing on your mind.

You've spent hours in the ostentatious tub, scrubbing your skin raw. Desperately trying to get rid of the disgust you felt every time you looked down at your own hands, always finding them covered in blood no matter how many times you washed them. Some things can't be washed out with anything, and you can't undo the things you've done.

After wishing to recover your memories so fiercely, you can't believe you find yourself wishing you could forget everything all over again, the happy and awful ones alike. Every time you remember your short marriage with Azriel, you end up reminding yourself of all the things you've done, of how much you didn't deserve even a second of the happiness he brought you during those years.

You remember when Azriel confided in you about the guilt he felt for the things he's done. You'd always soothe him as best as you could, thinking you could understand how he feels, telling him you'd always love him no matter what. It makes you cringe just to think how naive you were.

Everything Azriel had done had been by the High Lord's orders - unfortunately including Rhysand's father - but, whether it was the best solution or not, it was all for the good of the Night Court and its people. And even then you couldn't have imagined what that burden felt like on his back. You had fought before, helped them keep the court safe, but had hardly ever killed anyone, only getting that far when it was strictly necessary.

Now you had lost count of how many people's lives had ended by your hand, or you wish you had at least. Your nightmares insist on showing you every single person, one after the other playing incessantly in your mind. Now you know what it felt like to be on the other end of the conversation.

Letting out a sigh, you submerge yourself underwater, hoping to drown out your thoughts for even a moment. You almost felt bored today, which shouldn't come as a surprise since you've done virtually nothing in weeks, but given your current disposition it certainly was something new. It almost makes you wish you had accepted Azriel's offer of taking you up to Rhys' cabin though you still weren't sure you could make the trip there. The only way to leave this house was by having someone fly you down, which is probably why they keep you here in the first place.

It could be completely unrelated to your mood, but Azriel hadn't come by today. He warned you there was something important he needed to do when he left the night before. He rarely leaves your side these days, always sitting by your door or in the room next to yours, keeping his promise of being a simple shout away, so you know it had to be about the guild or the general safety of Velaris for Rhys to actually manage to convince him to stay longer than a few hours away from you.

Curiosity got the best of you, asking the question out loud while he was informing you through the door before you could stop yourself. He didn't answer right away, probably too surprised at hearing your voice after weeks of silence, so you didn't even realize you had asked it out loud at first.

When the shock wore off, he told you there were some suspicious movements close to the Hewn City, the smile noticeable in his voice despite the safety threat he was describing. Routine checks like these never took him too long, and with the added situation you were in, he would likely be back by the early hours of the morning.

You couldn't call them conversations at all, but hearing Azriel talk to you, sometimes to tell you about his day, telling you old stories or even new ones, the important moments you've missed in recent years, helped you not feel so empty somehow. As much as you were desperately trying to distance yourself and lay forgotten alone in this room, the fact that he wouldn't allow you to do it brought you a sense of relief.

These feelings were too confusing, wanting complete opposite things like this. You needed to be alone, were always just shy of a panic attack when you so much as caught a glimpse of anyone or heard their voice, but it was starting to feel like you still wanted them to reach out a hand dispute it all.

Your lungs start to burn after being left with no air for so long. You consider just letting it run out, put yourself out of this misery, but your hands reach for the sides of the tub, pulling yourself out of the water, air filling your lungs once again, chest rising and falling as you catch your breath. Even this you couldn't do right.

Getting out of the tub and cleaning yourself off with a fluffy towel, you move to walk out into the bedroom, but hesitate for a moment, glancing at the calming oils the house left you on top of the counter. You've scrubbed at your skin so much it's irritated and slightly itchy, the oil could help soothe it so you didn't end up scratching at yourself all night.

One of the oils smelled like lavender too, so maybe with a little luck and nothing else disturbing you, it would help you relax enough for you to get at least a few hours of sleep without any unwanted nightmares waking you up right away. You felt exhausted down to the bone, and wanted nothing more than a little dreamless peace, so you picked up the oil for once.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, you search through the closet, finding it full of your old things. There was more than what Azriel had shown you before, when you still couldn't recognize any of them, a lot more in fact, it looked like he hardly got rid of anything. There were also things the rest of your friends must have saved from that time.

You hadn't stopped to think about what happened to everything you owned when you died, too consumed with every other thought. It seems everyone ended up keeping a piece of you for themselves, Azriel keeping as much as he could, desperately so.

Rummaging through the boxes, you pick up a necklace Cassian had bought for you as a Solstice present. It was simple in nature, but the blue stone hanging from it was absolutely gorgeous. He had been very proud of this find, and later that night Azriel had told you all about how he had begged Mor to help him get something special for you, since he wasn't too good at buying gifts for people but wanted your first Solstice with Azriel to go without a single misstep.

The necklace holds a nostalgic weight as you put it around your neck, letting it sit as you look through the rest of your things. There was a lot more jewelry in these boxes since you always had a love for shiny things, and Rhysand didn't have any sort of restraint when it came to his money. Once he had bought you an entire collection of gold, sapphire encrusted jewelry for Solstice, one that would have embarrassed you had you not given him an extremely rare cologne that same night. You even had to employ the help of Azriel's shadows to find it. Finding gifts for the High Lord was always an adventure.

Picking up one of the many decorated daggers the inner circle, including your mate, had gifted you over the years, you find it's the first dagger Amren gave you. It hadn't been a solstice or birthday gift, she had simply decided you needed it after an attack. You had more than enough daggers, even more if you went through Azriel's collection, but her giving it to you was a sign that she cared, in her own way. You had almost started crying in Azriel's arms when you realized the ancient, terrifying creature cared about you later that night.

Most of your expensive clothes seemed to be hanging in this closet as well, and almost all had either been gifted by Mor or you had bought them when you were shopping together. You wonder for a second if any of the old stores you used to visit were still open. You're also not entirely sure if you'd like any of the things you used to, dressing in color felt foreign to you now.

Even from your position on the ground, you knew the carefully wrapped dress hanging in the closet had to be your wedding dress, the thought making your mouth go dry. You thumb at your ring finger unconsciously, finding it empty. You had lost your wedding ring, Azriel couldn't have kept it since you had it on when you died. You find yourself wishing you still had it, as undeserving as you were of something so special.

Memories of the ceremony rush into your head, bringing tears to your eyes, it truly had been the happiest day of your life. You wonder if you would have still married him if you had known what was to come. Selfishly, you think you would.

You have to tear your eyes away from the garment, making your way through the boxes sitting at the bottom of the dresser once more to distract yourself. There were so many random things in here, even bookmarks and cookie cutters. He truly has kept anything that reminded him of you.

In the middle of it is sitting a dandelion preserved in resin. Azriel had given it to you when you told him you missed looking at the fields full of them as you sat under the trees when you were a child, finding the most comfortable looking one to take a nap. You used to keep it by your bedside, and looking over to the empty nightstand you think you might start doing it again.

At the bottom of the box were a few letters, a copy of your contract with Rhysand, letters your parents had written, and a few you wrote for Azriel. There was one in particular that came to mind. You search for it, knowing the inscription and date written on the envelope by heart. When you find it among the others, you open it slowly, hands shaking as you do.

You had written this letter for Azriel after he proposed to you, leaving it on his pillow for him to find one night. It had always been easier for you to write your feelings rather than saying them out loud, and so you had decided to do just that, pouring your heart out into the pages.

Reading through it brought tears to your eyes, sobbing silently at her precious feelings. No matter how naive or innocent she was, one thing you can't deny was that her love for Azriel was always real, your love for Azriel. You find yourself agreeing with every word you had written all those years ago, even when you felt unworthy of it. You still loved him as much as you did before, there's no point in denying that.

You don't know how many times you read the letter or for how long you sit on that floor, holding onto the dandelion Azriel immortalized for you, crying at everything you've lost, and everything you still have.

When Azriel comes by that night you find yourself opening the door, only wide enough for you to be able to reach your hand out, but it sets his heart beating dangerously fast nonetheless, the rush of happiness traveling through the bond somehow. You hand him the letter silently, and almost thank the gods when he carefully accepts it without touching you, without question, before closing the door back up.

You've never been good at explaining your feelings, much less when your head is as messy as it is now, but you hope he understands what you want to say with this gesture, you want him to know you still love him, that you always will. Judging by the way he starts audibly crying, much like you had been hours prior, you think he does, and, for the first time in weeks, those sounded like happy tears.

It's hard to say where the sudden courage came from, but your body moves before you have the chance to ignore it or talk yourself out of it. Getting out of bed and almost throwing yourself into the bath, letting the scented wash take away all the lingering cold sweats left behind by yet another nightmare.

Drying yourself off, and throwing on one of the dresses Mor had left for you quickly. She truly knew you well, even this warped version of you. The black dress was simple enough, although somehow too intricate for the dinner you were about to interrupt at the time, but it was beautiful.

She had come by your room not long ago, calling out your name softly, but unfortunately still scaring you in the process, unused to company as you were. The obvious panic shown by your heartbeat made her pause for a moment but it didn't completely deter her as she left a bag full of new clothes at your door, lingering only long enough to write out a note explaining she wanted you to have some updated clothes before going on her way, understanding you didn't wish to see or talk to anyone while holding out hope that you would one day.

You had waited for her to leave the house entirely before opening the door hesitatingly, and picking up the bag quickly, reading the note as well back in the comfort of your room. The kiss she left on the note, marked by her red lipstick, was so much like Mor that it made you cry.

That was the last time you had opened this door, and as your hand finds the doorknob you hesitate, heart beating so loud you think it might jump out of your chest. It takes you entirely too long to go through with it, but a loud, boisterous laugh coming from downstairs allows some of your courage to return.

Descending the stairs slowly, step by step, slowly putting one foot in front of the other, simultaneously trying to not make any noise and telling yourself you could do this. When you get closer to the dining room, close enough that you could hear them talking and find Azriel's shadows lazing around along the walls, you hesitate once more.

They sounded happy and you would only ruin the mood with your presence. Those thoughts quickly consume you, and almost make you turn around, but as one of his shadows suddenly passes you, sliding into the room to warn Azriel of your arrival, you round the corner and take the last few steps, walking into the room and facing the other three residents of this house.

Cassian stands up immediately at your presence, your name leaving his lips in surprise as he studies you with wide eyes. His familiar lack of subtlety almost brings a smile to your lips. You think it did at first, only to raise your hand and find your mouth set in the same line it had been stuck in for weeks, the muscles still unused, but you still stayed.

They were all frozen in place, as if scared that if they made any sudden movement it would send you back running to your room, and, truthfully, it probably would. Everyone's eyes are now on you, every single one of your instincts is telling you to turn back around, and you're still here. Maybe you can actually do this.

“I…” Your voice falters, you couldn't be sure when it was the last time you had used it. “I thought I could join you for dinner today.”

No one answers right away, still watching you as if they couldn't believe you were really standing there. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, closing your hands into fists, hard enough that your nails bite into the palms of your hands, the pain keeping you present in the moment. You wanted to approach the table, but felt entirely too exposed.

Nesta is the first to break out of the spell, grabbing onto Cassian's arm and pulling him back down into his chair, making you let out a sigh of relief. As soon as his butt finds the chair, Azriel also shakes himself out of his surprise, a blinding smile trying to fight its way into his lips while he attempts to act normally. His shadows all disperse to different corners of the room as he lets out a breath, one that seems to come from deep within him.

“Of course you can,” he answers at last. He comes up to your room and talks to you every day, but hearing it unmuffled by the door, his eyes locked on yours, makes goosebumps appear in your arms. It also sends you walking to the table, choosing the seat at the top instead of the empty one next to Azriel. One step at a time.

A bowl of soup appears in front of you as soon as you sit down. The worst part was over, you reminded yourself. Now you just have to sit and eat, let them get lost in their conversations and just push through. It takes them a moment to understand your feelings, but once again Nesta seems to read you like an open book, starting their conversation back up and forcing them to follow.

You hadn't eaten all day if you remembered correctly, but your appetite was the last thing on your mind, having to almost force yourself to finish the soup, as was the usual these days. It was also hard to keep track of their conversation as you kept repeating encouraging words in your head and ordered your limbs to keep moving, entirely too aware of your every movement.

They tried to be subtle, but every once in a while you could also feel their side glances at you. You never met their eyes though, staring into your soup as if it was the most interesting thing you've ever seen in your life.

Azriel's shadows seemed to be your biggest supporters, lazing around under your feet as if reminding you that you weren't alone. They were easier to deal with that Azriel himself for now, but as an extension of him, it felt like having him close.

You hardly say another word during the whole ordeal, the air so awkward it almost made you want run away multiple times, but you stay until you finish your food, and when you go back to your room, excusing yourself quickly, you're incredibly proud of yourself. Azriel tells you as much when he visits one last time before sleep as well, a warmth spreading in your chest at the words. Maybe all wasn't completely lost yet.

[rxzennia]

echoes from afar

– tales of the voracity pathstrider

✎𓂃 your friends… they call for you. this was from a few version updates ago, but i've been mad busy and unmotivated these days… :( lore with a sprinkle of aventurine. a very, very tiny sprinkle. so i thought i could get this up last week. i am a clown. also, samsung's one ui 6 is so ugly (edit: i got used to the ugly ui. still doesn't quite like it, though. but i got used to it enough to tolerate it). 

→ part ii (wip? deciding. lmk if a sequel sounds cool.)

you didn't think you'd hear your own species ever again. oroboros is somewhere in the universe, qlipoth was probably keeping them out of where civilizations are, and the rest are all either dead or scattered. but here you are, hearing distant screeches from a star system lightyears away from yours, the sound slowly getting closer, closer, closer.

the war between aeons seems inevitable now that you've walked the land amongst mortals, seen their strife, and tasted the ever-so-familiar touch of entwining paths heralding the conflict. the longer you spend living, masquerading as someone who will someday die, you see the violent undercurrents under every calm ocean, as if everything is running on a countdown.

of course, you will never truly understand any of that; time has never been a limited resource for you.

you can almost hear the screeches of your own kin right by your ear

but you know, clear as day, that there's only you on the balcony right now

you're alone on the balcony of aventurine's bedroom, your boss snoring away comfortably cuddled up to his cats

you haven't been able to sleep for a while

not since you've heard the first cry of a leviathan in literally ages

leviathans seldom communicate with one another, so why would they suddenly reach out now?

and you were fairly certain that oroboros is the only other one left

well, the only one that's still actively doing who-knows-what somewhere, anyways

either what you're hearing is the lingering cries of those who are already gone

or you're delusional and you're hallucinating

aventurine doesn't seem to notice your absence, probably because of his abundance of things to cuddle with apart from your person. a good thing, you suppose, because your chronically stressed boss needs his beauty sleep.

you don't intend to drag anyone into your worries. it's nothing you can't handle alone – or, rather, it's not something mortals can handle, even with an organization as robust as the ipc. your existence, your true descent of a dusk leviathan, your connection to the aeon of voracity, none of which are burdens your companions should bear. 

it's these quiet moments when your kin raises their voices and sing in your ears

no, scrap that poetic shit, more like screech in your ears

they recognize prey, they recognize a hunting ground, a free-for-all

it's only natural, you suppose, lest predators start to devour each other in hunger

they're trying to locate you, the sound echoing, bouncing back, as they seek out food

"i'd strongly advise against doing that," you mumble, patting your scarf idly, as if you can't be bothered to care

they're not too far from where your true form slumbers, it seems, and it's easier than a cakewalk to force them into submission

and yet, you cannot locate them

you have their general location, but you can't pinpoint their exact coordinates

you try again, and again, until you come to a realization

they're dead a long time ago; there is nothing for you to find

their wails echo into nothingness, a void that is even more empty than oroboros's stomach

by the time you realize the purpose of these ancient cries, your true form is already stirring from its slumber. in all its majesty, its maw parting to split heaven and hell, until it swallows the carcasses of your kin, until it slithers through the stars, seeking out its next meal.

for the first time in the entire two thousand amber eras of your "existence", you feel hungry. famished, even, and it is a strange feeling.

have you gotten too accustomed to the mundane?

have you been domesticated?

quite some good questions, actually

how long has it been since you've actually allowed yourself the pleasure of devouring planets?

far too long

but it's wrong to eat civilizations

it's wrong to put an end to so many histories and futures because you were feeling peckish

it doesn't even actually "fill" you, so that's just triple the wrong

well, by the textbook definition of wrong, anyways

you don't really understand, but you know the general consensus of "eating people bad"

but your stomach yearns for the familiar feeling of life in its void

you turn around to take a peek at the peacefully sleeping man in the bed, safely tucked away in the blankets

a perfect prey right there, defenseless and unsuspecting

it would be so easy to just gobble him up without anyone noticing

and you could slip away just as easily

your entire profile is fabricated – you can always just make another "you" elsewhere 

but you find yourself extremely reluctant to even wake your extension coiled around the oddly-shaped cats

you find the trust that mortals impart upon you a gift of most intrigue

it is such a fragile, precious thing, and yet they offer it to you freely

especially this man who you serve as an assistant…

aventurine. 

it isn't even his real name, but you find yourself mouthing the syllables again and again. this man who is bestowed the title of a gemstone, wielding the power of the amber lord who strives to protect mortals from your kind like you're some sort of eldritch horror, yet also the one who has you wrapped around his finger.

and you're one of the select few he holds close to his heart. against all odds, he had let you into his heart, see his wounds and scars, and trusts you with all of them. he might act the way he does, but you know how delicate he is underneath all that bravado.

out of curiosity, you try to move the leviathan amongst the pile of limbs, sheets, and felines

as you expected, it doesn't want to answer

it seems that your body doesn't want to act on any malicious intents

you really did get domesticated… 

oh, aeons, it'll come back and bite you in the ass someday, won't it?

even if you have no qualms about eating anything that's not intelligent 

like monsters and stuff

but still

you shouldn't have developed aversion to devouring entire persons

…

it is what it is, you suppose

but holy fuck, those screeches from galaxies away just would not stop

"fucking oroboros, shut the hell up already," you groan, pulling up your scarf to muffle your complaints, "i'm not eating anyone here."

if there was someone behind all this pestering, you definitely would've gone and beaten them up. but. but. there's no one behind this. none that you can think of.

unless it really is oroboros themselves, which you'll have an even bigger problem on your hands. you really hope it isn't.

the noises clear up into words, whispering into your ears

consume. devour. feed. destroy. 

cast them into the void. let them be your sustenance. take their power as your own.

you are a predator. why are you among prey?

they are many but fragile. why do you still hesitate?

no.

no, they are not fragile.

they are not prey.

they are not sustenance.

do not speak of them as if they are nothing but food.

what do you know of the people inhabiting the countless planets in the cosmos?

what do you know of the storms they have weathered?

humanity is stronger than you would ever know.

tonight will be a long night, it seems. you can only hope that this doesn't manifest as some sort of personality disorder. come morning, these thoughts will go away as your mind becomes occupied with work.

there are four system hours until then. 

a leviathan like you, a monster of the cosmos… 

shut up. shut up. shut up. shut up. shut up.

be quiet already.

wish as you may, they will continue to torment you.

why? because they seek answers.

how long will you keep wearing the skin of sheep?

[scaryman-fancam]

REVENANT X READER ANGST DRABBLE - tw: talk of death, death, detailed fear of sudden death, grief

It’s a quiet evening in the little apartment.

He had no need for a place to rest at night, or at all. The place was rented specifically as a way to know where you were. He liked knowing you were safe in a little place he’d picked personally. Having control gave him some sort of reassurance that you’d be alright while he was away, because it was his home, his bed, his things keeping you cozy and warm.

You’re curled around his waist. He drags the metal of his fingertips across the screen in his hands, clearing jobs off of his list. Ones that had kept him away for months at a time. He tilts his head slightly every few minutes in between logging details of each hit, optics flicking to you, checking on you, casting a small, momentary spotlight on you in the slow dimming of the room as the sun dipped behind the other buildings in the city.

He was the literal mechanical grim reaper. Death was his job, his medium. A grisly artist who left carcasses as canvases, signed with a special brutality reserved for those unfortunate enough to end up in his job queue. He was all too familiar with death. He had died again and again, numb to the darkness that exists in-between each new vessel. Numb to the cold and the pain of the metallic husk collapsing in on itself, of the burn in his chest when the motors and circuits whirr to a painfully slow end, suffocating as his systems shut down.

Then he wakes up again.

Death was nothing to him. Thousands at his hands, thousands of his own. Thousands more simulated in the games.

It had you wondering.

Life was dangerous. Living is dangerous. Something could happen at any given moment. Hell, Wraith had told you that something HAS happened at any moment across different universes. If you could imagine it, it’s happened.

She’d warned you that in many universes, Revenant was your way out. Had your first meeting gone any differently, perhaps in a universe where he didn’t truly know his own strength. One where he was still a human, and you were one of his last hits before dying for the first time.

You’ve thought about it. Stressed about it. But has he?

It itches at the back of your brain for months. Brewing viciously and boiling your entire being along with it, mindlessly moving and writhing as the denied fear tries to look for a scrap, something to feed it and let it fester, something to let it root in the back of your mind—

“What’s got you squirming?”

His rough voice breaks your train of thought. You still, blinking up at him, his eyes already trained on yours, his tablet set aside. He’d been watching for a while.

“What’ll happen when I die?”

The first words that come out of your mouth. You know the answer. He’d told you many times when he was haunted by the thousands of deaths he was forced to endure.

He scoffs, like it’s irrational, “You won’t know you’re dead. You’ll know that you’re dying, but you won’t know when it’s settled in, like falling asleep.”

It’s supposed to settle you, the way he spares you of the worst of it. You can’t decide if it works. You must’ve been too quiet too long for his liking, so he pokes your forehead.

“What else is happening in that pretty little head of yours?”

It almost makes you smile. That sarcastic and playful streak trying to warm the fear bitten part of you.

“What will you do when I die?”

He stops. He’s quiet for a long time. It’s a question he too has wondered about. He’s numb to the concept, death is tangible, yes, he’s seen a light go out a million times, burnt bulbs to never be replaced, but he can’t help the twinge of discomfort of not being able to stop death. He can control the way they go. Cut short and quick, or painful, slowly draining the life. He can’t prevent death.

He’s a killing machine. Not made for healing, not made for care, tenderness and love. Everything he does is rough, it’s harsh, unforgiving. If you fear death, he wonders, why are you with him? It makes him uncomfortably angry at himself. Something soft and weak offers itself to him, equipped with claws and blood in every groove of his mechanical being. Makes his hands itch, even now when he longs to be gentle, he wants to lash out in anger at the way fate has left him as a monster.

He’s lived for hundreds as a monster, and he’ll live for hundreds more as one. Wishing he were gentle for just one night to truly indulge in the fragility of your being does not reverse it. He will remain a monster, long after you are gone. Unchanged.

“Knowing you, you’ll probably have earned it,” he decides, folding his arms. No room for argument as he scoffs, “Asking questions like that, always so fearful. The world out there will eat you up,” his voice dropping to a low rumble before he laughs, the grating mechanical sound hopefully distorted enough to hide the shimmer of weakness. The long forgotten phantom ache on the outer corners of his eyes, the burn that follows after, invisible heat rimming the shiny water lines. He bows before no other, but secretly he thanks a higher being that he is no longer flesh, that you cannot see the ghost of how he feels.

It eases you, his sadistic sarcasm, somehow. This master of death speaks to you as if it is no big deal. So maybe it isn’t.

“Thanks Rev,” the words are soft and reassured, and he leans down to bury his cold face into the side of yours, “keep me warm,” he mutters, grunting as he repositions himself, ignoring the way you squirm and try to push away the frigid metal with annoyed huffs and giggles.

The lights are off, the curtains drawn. You’d leave all the lights on, your eyes weren’t like his: artificial and equipped with night vision. He wanders the place at all times when he isn’t busy, not bothering to change vessels or clean the viscera away when he gets home.

You used to complain about the blood crusted footprints he’d leave on the rug. So he simply stays off of it now.

He traces the damage you’d left in the place as well. Chipped paint from tripping over the coffee table and into the wall. A coffee stain on the white marble counter that just wouldn’t go away. He’s certain he could get rid of it now, but he’s not sure if he can.

Revenant finds himself with his face to the wall. In the couch cushions. Even limp with his head in the empty washing machine, searching for traces of your scent. He’s done this routine enough to know that there’s nothing left. He’d greedily breathed in every trace of your presence in the first few months.

It doesn’t stop him from checking.

There’s a dirty cup in the sink. He holds it in his hand, mimicking you, the clink of his metal lips to the ceramic, following your motions, fruitlessly putting his lips to where yours once were. He wishes he had a tongue, so he could check the silverware for just a taste of you left.

The bedroom is the worst.

He avoids it when he can.

But it’s been a rough day. A rough week. A month, a year. Maybe longer?

It’s going to be a rough forever.

Slipping into the room with the grace of a zombie. It’s been a good couple hundred years since he’s felt exhaustion, but the constant burning around his optics has warn him thin. At the bed, he finds himself curling up in the divot of where you used to lay. The mattress hasn’t been used properly in a decade already, and he knows the hollow has changed its shape. It’s not truly yours anymore, his heavy form wearing the foam down further. He regrets lying in it, damaging the relic of your residence, but starvation leaves a dog desperate.

His legs tucked to his chest, arms binding them in place, head tucked between his knees. Fetal position, though he wishes fate would miscarry him this one time.

He’ll pretend that he is rotting, already with you. He’ll never die. They’ll make more of him for as long as they can.

But for now he’ll keep his consciousness in this one. He died the same day as you, his heart ripped from the otherwise hollow chassis of his being. The slow burn of the death of his circuits the only comfort, dreaming that one night it will be the final time.

[whatthebodygraspsnot]

Part vi number 18 and 8 👀

8. “Kiss me, I can’t wait any longer.” 18. “It’s so hot when you talk like that.”

it's been a long night. the mission was a success and the team is celebrating - using a chunk of the stolen cash to fill their stomachs with food and good wine at the vacant building they renovated into their hideout.

it's been a long night, and it's made even longer by how ian hasn't had a single moment alone with mickey since the heist started. since mickey had to concentrate on doing his thing with the wires and ian had to put on his tux, blending in with the gala's diamonds and furs. pretending to be someone you're not is hard in a room full of rich snobs. it's even harder in a room full of people who think they know you from top to bottom.

because they don't. these people are his family - they have been for years - but they don't know what makes ian tick. what's most important to him. the way his heart pulses and fingers itch for the man across the table from him.

his team is his family, but they don't know that he and mickey are fucking.

they can't. it would complicate too much. they'd start going off about how emotions like that can fuck with the plan. how their entire mission can go haywire if something happened to one of them. and they're right. it would. ian would scrap an entire weeks-long pursuit the fucking second he saw something happen to mickey. he cares too much. he's a fucking liability.

so they don't tell them. they keep their nights together to themselves. keep how long they've been doing this a secret. act normal and cordial and friendly on the outside, even when one shared look across the table sends pulses of want and desire through ian so powerful that he has to swallow down another gulp of wine, their heavy gaze never leaving each other once.

because it's been a long night. he hasn't had a chance to touch mickey. to reward him for a job well done in his own way. to look him over and smooth him out and exist with him, away from the others. alone. together.

the team is his family, but they don't know that he told mickey he's in love with him last night. they have no idea how powerful the wave of delight in his soul was when mickey said it back to him. to them, they're just ian and mickey. two members of the team who have gone quiet now, content with stealing glances across the table with heavy, wine-drunk eyes.

they can't know. and ian is two seconds away from reaching across the table and pulling mickey's hand into his own, so he forces himself to get up, stepping away from the table.

he disappears into one of the bedrooms - the one with the big floor to ceiling windows that look out into the abandoned building's courtyard. it's quiet here. peaceful. he can hear exactly how hard his pulse is thumping in his eardrums while everyone else carries on in the main room.

because he's good at slipping away without causing attention to it. it's how he joined the team in the first place. but there's one person who tracked his entire exit. he's fucking banking on it.

behind him, the door shuts. the lock clicks.

and when ian turns, the warmth that was being pushed down all night blooms fully and heavily in his chest.

mickey takes him in just as hungrily, the grin that's pulling the corner of his mouth so good that ian needs to chase after it. "kiss me," mickey murmurs, already stepping toward him on the momentum they've been building across the table, "can't wait any fuckin' longer."

it's got ian's heart soaring. has something almost animalistic rumbling in his chest as he steps forward too, fucking finally, because christ... "it's so fucking hot when you talk like that."

and when they meet in the middle of the room, it's with hands grabbing - feeling - running over ian's shoulders and holding mickey's face and they pull themselves together so tightly that ian can taste blood as their mouths clash.

but it's what he's been craving all night. it's what keeps him going, mickey just as hungry for it as he starts walking him backward until ian's back is pressed against the window.

they probably shouldn't be doing this here. not right now, at least. they're celebrating in the other room, after all.

but nothing is more important to ian than this man. this moment. this thing that they've made with each other.

and soon, it will be too big to hide.

[ send me a smutty one-liner ]

[meowzfordayz]

cast iron

Author’s Note: inspiration truly is everywhere — even elbows deep in a sink washing dishes. 🫧

cast iron

Bakugo Katsuki x Reader

Word Count: ~900

CW: none

~faqs~ 

You know Bakugo’s fallen in love with you the day he lets you wash his cast iron pan. He’s meticulous about the thing; a handed down, family “secret” that he only revealed after a year of dating to cook your anniversary dinner…

… not including the months it’d taken for him to randomly exclaim So are we together together or are we friends?! his face red and puffy as you’d blinked slowly, taking a moment to process his outburst. What do you want? you’d deflected, heart nearly beating out of its cage, to which he indignantly replied Nope. I asked first! Your achingly familiar laughter ringing in his pinkened ears as your assured answer brightened his gaze We’re together together… I hope? He’d rolled his eyes, that overwhelming sensation of longing tucked neatly away, his chest broad and exuberant as he scoffed Well obviously.

You hadn’t actually gotten to watch him cook—he’d surprised you by taking over your apartment while you were at work, perfecting the meal for your return—but you’d taken note of the soaking pan (all other cleaning already completed, of course) when you’d peeked into the kitchen.

“I can’t thank you enough,” you gush, salivating as the scent of the broth in your spoon wafts to your nose, “My entire place smells amazing!” “Yes you can,” he grunts You already do, the softest of a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth, “Eat.” Nose scrunching, you happily acquiesce, a tangle of lime, fresh chili, and coconut milk (plus a hint of fish sauce) melting warm on your tongue. You dip your spoon again, this time capturing a cute button mushroom, its fleshy underside soaked in flavor and heat as you take a contented nip. “How is it?” He tries to sound nonchalant, eyes hardly meeting yours, right hand clutching his own spoon with calculated casualness, but you know better. You’ve loved him for 365 days, after all. Bakugo doesn’t give a damn what people think, because Bakugo knows what he is and what he doesn’t aspire to be. But Katsuki? Katsuki cares, perhaps a little too much. “Delicious!” you declare, “Definitely spicy, but not unbearable. And there are so many subtleties… I swear it tastes different yet better with every bite.” “You’re so dramatic,” Katsuki snorts, grinning proudly nonetheless, eyes raising to feel your praise, acutely aware of how you might’ve just described him. — You spring up when you’re finished, determined to get to the remaining pan before he can, but you’re stopped almost as soon as the thought occurs. “Sit.” His voice is quiet, stress not veiled in the slightest. “But the-” “I’ve got it.” You pout for a second, arms crossing as you sit down, head shaking fondly at his protectiveness. “I know how to wash cast iron.” “So tell me why you don’t own a single cast iron pan,” he retorts. “High maintenance,” you quip, eyebrow raising pointedly. Grumbling to himself, Katsuki stands and clears the table, pressing a chastising kiss to your forehead before walking toward the kitchen. “Takes one to know one.” “Heeeyyy!!!!!”

The pan goes home with him in the morning—sometimes in the afternoon on a lazy Sunday—an unassuming tool of tenderness and self reliance. Katsuki, selflessly devoted. Bakugo, foreign to the touch of affection. You don’t feel half loved, nor do you feel that you love half a man (Bakugo Katsuki, for all of his faults, is a wonderful partner and admirable person), but you often wonder how he feels. As he scrubs at the buildup of grease and grime, clear water gradually turning murky, his reflection still visible as scraps of onion and garlic float to the surface… rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. How do you get a man who loves so deeply to see that same love shining back at him? A man so attentive and observant to the quirks and whims of his lover… and afraid to share his own, lest they be unwanted or unfulfilled.

“Can you wash the pan tonight?”

You gawk. Not your finest reaction, but certain instincts can’t be avoided.

“I thought you knew how to wash cast iron?” Katsuki teases, pulse in his throat, “Or did you say that to impress me?”

“I…” you falter, unsure whether to continue tiptoeing or reach for him outright. He starts toward the kitchen, stare more guarded than you remember, and you blurt, “I figured you’d never ask.”

He freezes, indiscernible emotion clenching in his jaw. And then he chuckles. He chuckles and swivels to look at you, ruby eyes twinkling with uncharacteristic yet so beautiful shyness, tone rough like the homey crackle of a winter fire, soothed by the languid drip of honey into chamomile tea.

“Silly,” he rasps, your fingers curling around his waist, plates and silverware caught between your almost embrace, “I love you.”

—

He watches you scrub at breadcrumbs and spring onion, water practically scalding, and not a soap sud in sight. You work methodical and efficient, the pan hardly banging against the sink when you change angles and sections, each glance you direct his way brimming with amusement and adoration.

“I feel like I should pay you,” you hum, giving the pan its final rinse, “You’re basically my personal chef at this point.”

“Absolutely not,” Bakugo scowls playfully, poking your side before gently taking the cleaned pan from your hands, “This is more than enough.”

[notsosmug87]

I Wanted to reblog my take on this post. however it was too long to be a reblog so im writing it instead. Shoutout to @sexiestwerewolf

The show itself made him a dumbass.

S1-7 Jay was A know it all smartass With The Wits and Knowledge To match That energy to show that he wasn’t a pushover. Comic relief sure But Jay was the most capable of all the Ninja and it showed.

In the Oni trilogy Every ninja Mellowed out But Jay Still retained some of his character traits.

Literally going delusional, Designing and Building a flying Machine out of scrap metal that could also breath fire Then decided to propose to his love While they were mere seconds away from dying.

Enter, the 11 minute era.

The 11 Minute era Completely screwed over his character, And while that could be said for almost Every Ninja, Jay got it the worst; Showing us only the Incompetent Dumbass side of his character instead. Becoming only a one note comic relief with nothing more.

Prime empire also did jackshit for his character and to add insult to injury, The idea of Libber being Trapped in the game was scrapped entirely; Which is a shame because it would have been so interesting.

Master of the Mountain showed even more incompetence with the Queen of the Munce; And while he had his moments in both Seabound and Crystalized The damage was already done.

Dragons rising However, is trying To Fix his character With the Whole amnesiac Agent who will be fighting the Ninja in part 2 and I for one cannot fucking wait to see this.

Please god Just make him good again 😭

[lets-try-some-writing]

I have a Crack idea for the Sparkling of Unicron AU. Basically, Jack's dad is Unicron, who ghosted June to avoid paying child support. When Team Prime comes to Earth & meet the kids, Jack & Optimus team up to track down their dad and get the child support payments by force.

Jack here is still fleshy & has the same personality, but can basically do what a resurrected Megatron could do in Canon, just on a smaller scale. He can't control Megatron though, his will is too strong. Also, his blood is infused with Dark Energon.

When asked as to why she would date the literal God of Chaos, June states that he "had a winning personality". (We all know you like robots, June.)

I'm just going to answer yours and this anon's request at the same time since it will make my life easier. Previous part here

Little Siblings

After the whole debacle with being exiled for a time, Optimus began to heal. It was a slow process and it was not easy by any means. He had been abandoned, treated poorly, and left for scrap by everyone but his creator and the children. Thus it took time, a great deal of it. However during this healing process, Optimus noticed something new in the children.

Firstly, they fought bitterly in his defense if one of his team so much as looked in his general direction wrong. Secondly they often refused to leave his side, emitting a strange set of waves that were so similar to EM fields but so foreign. Then lastly Optimus felt a vague... connection between him and the children. It shouldn't be. They weren't Cybertronian and couldn't have spark bonds. And yet the closer he grew to them and the more he came to see them as kin, the stronger this heretical and impossible bond grew.

Not only that, but when he was around them, he felt more stable. His form didn't flare and break apart as often. His spark remained more controlled and he could keep his physical form together with less difficulty. They made him feel safe in a way that was not too dissimilar from how Unicron wrapped him in love and care. At the same time, the urge to protect them with every fiber of his being was just as strong as their desire to protect him. They were young, they were small, and they were fragile. He thought perhaps all the emotions he was feeling and the connection that seemed to be there might be because he had been away from his team for so long and was out of touch. He almost questioned his father, wondering if Unicron had anything to do with it, but he didn't, not while he was still upset with his maker.

Then the children had to go behaving weirdly.

After his little flare that left the children incapacitated and led to his exile, there were little things that were off about them. It wasn't much so the team wrote it off and Optimus didn't even notice as he worked to restore his broken bonds and the trust between him and his team. But as the wounds healed and Optimus reconnected with his team, the children's differences became more obvious.

Rafael had an aura around him. The team couldn't sense it, they weren't attuned to Unicron's power as Optimus was. Rafael's entire being radiated strength of spirit in a way not too dissimilar from Optimus. It was almost like he too was struggling to keep his being in line, doing everything in his power to keep his form held together. The child even began to speak in the same way Optimus did when his body was too shattered to form words. He didn't seem to know he was doing it, but his emotions were clear as day with how freely they flowed from him. It was startling, especially when not long after that Rafael's eyes began to glow a startling blue whenever his emotions were projected, often becoming clearer in intent.

Miko was partially similar in that her eyes began to glow whenever her emotions got strong enough to warrant concern. At those times she would gain an aura of fear around her. It didn't bother Optimus too much considering he projected the same aura naturally when he wasn't trying to blend in. However it made him more and more concerned when Bulkhead began to shy away in terror whenever Miko got particularly mad. She didn't understand why the team were suddenly so wary of her, nor did the team know why they kept so clear of her on instinct.

Optimus knew, or rather he had an inkling, one he was growing more prevalent within him as Jack showed signs too.

It had been small and hardly noticeable amidst the flow of battle, but in a moment of stress Jack had seemingly controlled a Vehicon Optimus had been near certain was dead. The boy didn't seem to notice as he fought to keep his fellow humans safe, but Optimus noticed. How could he not? The waves of his father's power were far more intense than anything he had ever felt from an organic.

Thus after a few additional weeks of watching the children project these odd abilities, he reached out to his maker with an inquiry.

Optimus: The children are showing abilities that have your touch evident in them.

Uniron: Impossible. I have no heralds among the humans.

Optimus: Are you sure Creator? They are not like me, that is certain. However the feeling of your power is unmistakable.

Unicron: I haven't made a herald since Megatron, and I have no memory of-

Optimus: Creator?

Unicron: It seems I forgot something rather important.

Optimus: Speak plainly Creator, what did you do?

Unicron: It was during a waking sleep, one I hardly remember. However I for a time walked this earth in an organic form in a mixed delirium of emotion.

Optimus: You didn't.

Unicron: I may have ended up creating three lifeforms by accident, two by throwing around burst of power and one from a one night stand.

Optimus: Primus... you can't be serious.

Unicron: I am dead serious.

Optimus: Frag.

With the knowledge that his Creator had gone out of his way to do things while only partially aware, Optimus hurriedly moved to confirm these claims. First he went straight to the children, his frame flaring and coming apart partially in his hurry. The team were worried and watched on in growing concern as he questioned Rafael, asking for the circumstances of his birth. Rafael quickly confirmed that he had been found as a baby and adopted by his current family and that he had no real issues with it. Then upon asking Miko the same question, he received a similar answer that left Optimus terrified to ask Jack what he needed to.

It could all have been coincidence and a bad case of Optimus's outburst affecting the children in odd ways. He had seen stranger things, perhaps it was all just one big mess up. However that hopeful wish was blown directly out of the water when June was called into base and Optimus asked her a question he feared the answer to.

Optimus: Mrs. Darby, would you by chance be willing to tell me who Jack's father is?

June: Oh? I don't mind, but I couldn't really give you an answer. He was a nice guy who told me his name was Uni Cron. Odd name and pronounced very strangely, he also had some trouble with memory, but he was sweet and treated me well.

Optimus: Why is he not here assisting in raising Jack?

June: Honestly I don't know. He lived with me for a few months, we got to know each other, we spent a night together, and then he was gone the next day. I never heard from him again.

Optimus: ... I believe you may have possibly had relations with my Creator.

June: What? Last I checked, you were a giant robot and your Creator was Unicron-!

June: ... Oh.

Optimus: ... If it is any consolation, I was unaware I had a brother.

Not a soul or spark could utter a word as everyone stood there dumbly for a long moment. Then Optimus put forward his whole theory, to which the children stared at him with wide eyes but said nothing. It was silent, deafeningly so and everyone just.... scattered to think about it for a while, leaving Optimus, June, and the children alone.

There was plenty of nervous staring involved, but slowly and with a great deal of caution, Optimus began to talk with the children and June. He told them of his own creation and his experiences with thier Creator and in turn he told them what he could of their abilites. He offered to teach them and guard them, while also warning of possible side effects such as long life or even partial immortality. It was a very strained discussion even though Optimus was bound to the children by what he now knew to be siblings bonds, but after a while they figured things out.

June insisted on being called mom as soon as she figured out that Optimus had been left to fend for himself so soon after his creation. It didn't matter to her that Optimus was millions of years old and had watched the rise and fall of civilizations, he was a child who never knew the love of a parent and she intended to rectify that especially now that her son and Optimus were confirmed to be related. He initially tried to object, but June reaching out to pat his cheek in a comforting manner left him bewildered but strangely pleased.

Jack was left more startled than anything else and doubting his reality. Optimus attempted to soothe him with calming words and the touch of his field, but Jack wasn't having it. He needed time, and that was acceptable. Miko was on board with the thought of being siblings almost immediately and took to being related to Unicron without issue. She called it her "hero arc" or something along those liens and proceeded to make a show of pretending to have magic powers. It made the tension in the room lessen, especially when Rafael merely adjusted his glasses, looked up at Optimus and murmured.

"So what if I'm related to Unicron? So are you, and you are one of the best bots out there. Besides, we are family now"

Family. It was a word Optimus had difficulty pinning after all that had happened. Bumblebee was family, he was Optimus's sparkling even if their relationship was still a little iffy. Ratchet was family, he had been family for vorns. The team were family, but mainly because they needed to. Optimus had no family by blood aside from his maker. His "siblings" were of Primus, not of Unicron. They were cousins that he treated like blood kin. He loved all his family, but there was something so very novel about having blood related kin right before him.

Of course then when he reached out to his Creator, he found their bond silent. He sent question after question, wondering why and asking for answers, but he received nothing. Unicron was not heeding him, quite likely because he didn't want to deal with his newfound creations.

Optimus was a special case, he was intentional, he was the one and only creation Unicron had poured all his attention into. He was loved form day one, but the children? They were accidents, and Unicron had never been quick to love when it came to those not bound to him. Optimus knew this well, he could read his creator's spark just by letting his base nature take over for a moment. However he had no intention of letting Unicron go without at least speaking to his children. The children needed their father. Optimus had been denied his creator his entire existence up until earth, the children deserved better, or if nothing else the the chance to see where they came from.

Thus he began spending every waking moment hounding his creator and digging around to find another way to Unicron's core if his creator saw fit to continue to remain silent.

[tetsunabouquet]

House Of Anubis: How the OG Dutch/Belgium show was butchered in its adaptation by Nickelodeon Part 1: Mick & Fabian

Given ATLA and Percy Jackson have gotten butchered again, I have decided to finally open my mouth about my favorite children's tv show: Het Huis Anubis. I am making this in several parts, because god this show was done dirty by Nickelodeon- especially the English adaptation. Today, we will go over exhibit A, Mick and Fabian and how they as individuals were butchered and their bromance was scrapped - all due to Nickelodeon's homophobia because OG Fabian's actor, Lucien van Geffen, came out as a gay man after the show ended. 1. Let's start with the most obvious thing: the boys appearance. Fabian is way cuter and way less nerdy looking in the English adaptation. The dude became Prom King for crying out loud. In the OG, whilst Fabian was cute, he was so in an overtly nerdy way and the idea of him becoming Prom King at all would have been an obvious prank. Mick was the dumb jock, the pretty boy of the cast who got played by a model. As a bisexual, this was the show that would get me bi-panicking because of Mick and Nienke (Nina in the English adaptation). 2. The aforementioned stereotyping was actually part of what made the bromance work. Because stereotypes are easier to understand for younger children and their contrasting stereotypes were written in such a beautiful way as they saw each other's value. Because in the OG, Mick has a lot of things going for him and he has a heart of gold but he has a dream he cannot accomplish being the dumb pretty boy he is but Fabian can. Because in the OG, Mick has a blind younger sister that he would like to cure more then anything but knows he's too dumb for medicine school unlike Fabian. He also knows Fabian is more courageous then he is and sees him as someone with lots of valuable traits whereas Fabian values Mick's loyalty and good, friendly nature as one of the show's primary himbo's. Their stereotypes allowed kids to understand each stereotype came with valuable traits. It's okay if you're a nerd or a jock. 3. MICK NEVER LEFT. Mick always remained the ignorant himbo walking around the house as his friends were busy dealing with cults. He was the breath of fresh air that brought normalcy throughout the show with his romance drama. Though he was ignorant of what they were doing, it's not like Mick was 100% oblivious throughout the entire show. For crying out loud Fabian had to fake his death at one point, with no one knowing he was still alive. Who was the one Fabian went to so he could say he was still alive? Mick. Really, a secret handshake is in no way on the same level as only telling your best friend you are still alive. 4. Which brings me to another character that never left: Nienke! Unlike her English counterpart Nina, Nienke remained as the leader of the Sibuna gang throughout the show with Fabian being the healthy kind of boyfriend who never felt like he had to take leadership away from her or anything. I swear in regards to Fabian in the English adaptation, they tried to hard to make a more alpha male version of Fabian. He's hotter, he gets more girls, he gets to be the leader and more. There is literal evidence they had toxic masculinity in mind: its Fabian falling to the sin of Pride in the show. Whilst the English adaptation was only faithful to the first season, the 7 deadly sins do show up in the first Anubis movie where Nienke is kidnapped by the antagonist. OG Fabian is literally the first person to win from all 7 deadly sins with the sin he ALMOST succumbs to being wrath as his friends and Nienke were about to die. Fabian was the virtuous knight in that movie and they actively made him more prideful in the English adaptation. Why would they change his relationship with Nienke and things like this, if it wasn't to make Fabian seem more masculine and whatnot because Lucien being gay emasculates Fabian in the eyes of Nickelodeon. For fuck's sake, Lucien was literally chosing to stay in the closet during the show because the ship was HUGE. He didn't wanted to break all of the little children's hearts by saying he was gay. Lucien was gracious 100%!

[rorywritesjunk]

I can’t tell where the journey will end But I know where to start

Prequel to my Kid Buggy fic, set about 11-ish years before that story.

Buggy meets you by chance when he needs his buttons sewn back onto his jacket. He’s young, up and coming, and he thinks everyone should cower before him wherever he goes, but all you do is smile at him.

Rating: PG-13ish just for some swearing. Warning: Buggy’s in his early 20s. I also gave him some anxiety and stuff because while he’s in love he doesn’t believe someone could love him back. He just has a lot of uncertainty with romance. Mawwiage happens. Alcohol is mentioned. Everyone’s having a good time. A/N: The epilogue! Enjoy. I am not done with these two in the sense I'll do more one-shots and the likes for them as well as AUs with Buggy's older sister and The Wives. Thank you to everyone who's been reading this! Enjoy!

Title comes from “Wake Me Up” by Avicii.

TAGLIST: @lostfirefly @ane5e @kingofthemfingpirates @the-angriest-angel @tiredemomama @valen-yamyam16 @i-reblog-fics-i-like @plethora-of-fickleness @uhnanix

Chapter 1 + Chapter 2 + Chapter 3 + Chapter 4 + Chapter 5 + Chapter 6 + Chapter 7 + Chapter 8 + Chapter 9 + Chapter 10 + Chapter 11 + Chapter 12 + Chapter 13 + Chapter 14 + Chapter 15 + Chapter 16 + Chapter 17 + Chapter 18 + Epilogue

Epilogue

The marriage was far from perfect.

Your first actual fight showed Buggy you were capable of not speaking to him for an entire week. It was regarding one of Mohji’s animals, a bear that fell ill and passed away. You had been upset for both the loss of the animal and Mohji; the boy loved that bear so much. All Buggy suggested was that you not… cry so much over it. That was it, suck it up and move on. It was just a bear.

He was on his knees begging for your forgiveness by the end of the week.

Then there was the time you accidentally cut up his favorite shirt. He had left it for days on the scrap fabric pile you collected in the bedroom and asked him many times if he was sure that shirt needed to be there. He had insisted it was, but a week after you cut it up into scraps to patch some of the crew’s clothes, Buggy asked about it. You both needed to work on more than verbal communication.

And a few years into the marriage, Buggy was feeling less like you were going to leave him for every person who talked to you that he was pretty relaxed - a little too relaxed because for your birthday he took you to a pub, got a little drunk, and made a comment about how hot the barmaid was. You weren’t mad, more amused by it, but when you reminded him the next day when he sobered up what he said, he was mortified.

You were leaving him for sure for that, he was certain of it.

On his birthday you disappeared for a day on an island you begged to be dropped off at. Buggy caved, wanting to do anything for you in hopes you would forget how he acted like an ass on your birthday again. Maybe you just needed a break from him, even if it was on his birthday. 

You came back after meeting up with Kuro and oh, oh the divorce was inevitable now. You had told him a few days after your birthday when he had a meltdown over how he acted and he begged for you to tell him if there was any man or pirate alive that you would have been with other than him and… that fucking cat pirate was the one you chose. Oh, he was handsome and he dressed so sharply, and you felt you had bragging rights over how well he dressed because he was your first true customer that you had repeated business with.

It was a dagger to Buggy’s heart, over and over and over again. 

“What’s got you so upset?” You asked when he stopped responding, slumped on the floor with an almost empty bottle of rum beside him. You moved the bottle and knelt beside him, touching his shoulder. “You feel okay, honey?”

“Are you leaving me for Kuro?” He whimpered, refusing to look at you because he just knew the answer. You’d be happier with a better dressed pirate than with Buggy. It was startling when you chuckled and kissed him on the cheek.

“No, no. I’m not leaving you for cat-boy.” You told him as you tried to coax him to look at you. “I was getting your birthday present, Buggy, to show you how much I love you.”

He sniffled, lifting his head to see you taking your shirt off. A look of confusion crossed his face as you turned yourself to show him your arm, revealing a tattoo of his jolly roger. 

“This isn’t your only present, y’know, I’m gonna make you a feast.” You said as he sat up quickly, trying to get a closer look, but the alcohol was hitting him and he slumped against you, looking up with large, watery eyes as you stroked his cheek gently. “I love you, Buggy, and I’m never leaving you.”

That… that helped. He felt better after that, though still had doubts.

~

The conversation about kids was… not what he anticipated. He thought you’d want kids right away, he saw how you were around children, how your eyes lit up at the family gatherings each year when you got to see all the kids(he loved the look of horror each year on your aunt’s face when the two of you showed up, she didn’t expect the marriage to last). He watched you pick up your cousin’s baby - he was two years younger than you and his wife just had their first kid. Your eyes lit up and Buggy watched your face soften with a smile he hadn’t seen before. 

He waited until you two were alone to ask. To his surprise you snorted at his question and gave him a kiss. “Not just no, but hell no.” 

“Wait, what?”

“Buggy, I like what we have now. Maybe someday we can have cute little kids but not right now.” You told him as you patted his cheeks gently. “And I don’t think we’re ready at all. Kids can be a discussion in a few years, okay?”

“Oh thank God.” Buggy sighed as he slumped against you, wrapping his arms around you and tightening them around you. “I can’t deal with that right now.”

You laughed softly and kissed him again, wrapping your arms around his neck as you leaned against him. “Neither can I, honey.” You smiled and looked up at him, pulling him down and bumping your forehead against his gently before kissing the tip of his nose. “I love you, Buggy. Thank you for talking to me about this.”

He blushed but didn’t look away as he hugged you. “Love you too, babe.”

~

It was a yearly thing for him to drink and reminisce about the good ol’ days as an apprentice on Roger’s crew. It was always the anniversary of his former captain’s execution. The first time you witnessed it he didn’t explain it to you, just grabbed bottles and bottles of alcohol to drink with the crew while you waited for an explanation on why this was happening. It wasn’t until you wrangled him to bed after he was strutting around the ship, saying he was still a great swimmer even though he was a Devil Fruit power. Before he could jump over the ship to demonstrate this, you grabbed him by the back of the pants and dragged him to the bedroom for him to sober up and explain. 

Buggy slumped on the bed, not bothering to take his shoes off so you helped him. He giggled, face lighting up as you helped get him comfortable for the night.

“I got the best wifey.” 

“And I have the best hubby.” You chuckled as you glanced up at him. “Can you tell me now what the drinking is for?”

“I drink to my captain!” Buggy told you excitedly, pumping his fist up to the air. “H-He was executed on this day eight years ago! I drink in his honor and to hi-his memory!”

“Oh.” 

You didn’t question him further, just made sure he was comfortable that night. The years going forward, you made sure he was safe, had a reasonable amount of alcohol, and put him to bed. He never talked about it the next day, either because he didn’t want to or didn’t remember, you weren’t sure but you figured if he wanted to talk he would. 

~

You were eleven years into this marriage. It… it was fine. It wasn’t too exciting, nor was it incredibly boring. It was just fine for you. Buggy let you take on certain roles on the ship, mostly just making sure everyone looked their best in their clothes so long as he was the best dressed. He trusted you weren’t leaving him any longer, which made it easier for you to slip out of bed in the morning to start breakfast for the two of you.

It was just right.

This morning was no different. He had his fill of alcohol the night before at the local pub with some of the crew, leaving you on the ship for a peaceful night. Buggy managed to stumble his drunken self back to the ship without falling into the water. He was sleeping off the alcohol, head under the covers as he laid curled up next to you. You woke up with him in your arms, but you managed to slip away from him. You were going to wait to start breakfast, wanting to run out to the shops first to pick up some goods before the crowds started.

Buggy stirred, peeking out from under the blankets with a grumpy expression as you got dressed. He lifted his head up just a bit before letting it fall back on the pillows. “What’re you doing?”

“Getting dressed.” You told him, keeping your voice soft as you pulled your shirt on. “I’m going to get some things. Any special requests?”

Buggy nodded, mumbling something under the blankets. You walked over and pulled them back just enough for him to mutter it to you, asking for some apples and peanut butter. He finished the last jar a week ago and had been wanting it. You rolled your eyes and kissed him on the forehead. You needed to buy two and hide them from him, apparently the last jar wasn’t hidden well enough.

“I’ll grab that for you. Anything else?”

“D’you hafta go?” He whined softly. “I want cuddles.”

“I’ll be back, honey.” You assured him as you made sure the blankets were keeping him covered. “I’ll have breakfast ready for you when you wake up, okay?”

“Promise?” 

“Promise I’ll have breakfast-”

“Promise you’ll be back?” He lifted his head again, pouting up at you. 

“Oh, of course I’ll be back.” You chuckled softly as you kissed his forehead. “I’ll be gone for a few hours, honey, but I’ll be back.” 

He frowned sleepily but nodded, settling back down under the blankets. You gave his shoulder a squeeze and tucked the blankets around him once more before you grabbed your wallet and headed out. It shouldn’t take too long to collect what you needed, but you were excited to be at this village. You hadn’t been there in over twenty years and you wondered if there had been any changes to it.

And you enjoyed walking around as you collected your goods, putting them in your bags and basket as you chatted with the vendors about what they were selling, how the weather had been lately, just little things that weren’t related to piracy. You loved your life but having a conversation that wasn’t about what Richie had eaten the night before to upset his stomach was nice. 

Your last stop was for peanut butter which you found in a little shop near the docks. It was a cute little place, selling all kinds of tasty ingredients and foods, but you only bought the peanut butter, knowing you could easily go broke buying all the fancy ingredients in the shop. Maybe if Buggy ever became incredibly rich and had lots of treasure you could think of something like that.

You bid farewell to the shopkeep as you stepped out of the shop, not watching where you were going. Something bumped into you, startling you, and when you turned to apologize, your voice caught in your throat. As far as you were aware, you were very sober so what was this you were seeing in front of you?

“Hey, watch it!” The kid in front of you snapped, glaring daggers up at you. His blue hair and bright red nose was very familiar to you.

Oh, oh no, what was going on?

[nonbinaryeye]

Alliance with Too Much Past and No Future

Written for @gortash-week

Day 5 - Redemption

Archduke Enver Gortash is happy to find out that his dear newly returned ally wants to talk to him and discuss the deal he made with him some more. At least till he hears what exactly the Dark Urge proposes to him.

Read on AO3

...

It is the middle of night in the city of Baldur's Gate and the Dark Urge, the way he used to do, has sneaked into private rooms of the newest Archduke, Enver Gortash. He said he needed to talk to him, discuss something with him. And how could Gortash ever say no to some plotting with his favourite accomplice in the hours far away both from midnight as well as morning? And so they have taken seats on the chairs by the unlit fireplace. But a promising start quickly turned sour.

“Apologies, my dear, could you repeat yourself. I think I must have misheard you,” Gortash says politely. He is quite sure he has not ‘misheard’ him, there was not anything in his words he could have heard wrongly or misinterpreted. Nevertheless, he can still hope he somehow completely hallucinated them. Because there is no way his dear assassin, his favourite long-lost ally, his Dark Urge, would say something among the lines-

“I said that you should… no, you need to abandon your plans. All your efforts to dominate the brain for your own purposes. They are bad. Dangerous. You need to reconsider the path you are walking on.” His tone is calm. Gentle. The dragonborn bhaalspawn is looking at him with solemn expression with no indication this all is just some very bad joke.

Because what in the nine hells does he mean by it?

Enver Gortash was running on three hours of sleep, spite and maybe a bit of potion of speed. That is nothing new nor unusual for him. To say the past few days were stressful would be an understatement; even taking in account the entirety of how the past year went and the mental toll it took on him. When the current part of the Absolute plan started, Gortash of course had his doubts about the reliability of his allies but even in his worst nightmares he did not anticipate for it to turn into such a disaster. It started with that damned illithid going rogue, Kethric failing to obtain the damned artefact. Then he also decided now it is the best time for his immortality to stop working and his netherstone got stolen by a group of ragtag adventurers. Next Orin, the wild card she is, decided she will no longer cooperate and after that…

He could have dealt with all the things previously mentioned. He is certain he could have. He is used to both working under pressure and plans failing. Sometimes even a machine one thought to be polished to perfection decides to malfunction and needs to be fixed. Even if one wanted to apply this metaphor in his current circumstances the said machine has crumbled into a pile of scrap metal and needs to be completely reforged. He really believes he could have dealt with all of that though. Unlike with what has come next.

What he at first assumed to be the silver lining in this entire mess has turned out to be the only thing he is uncertain what to do with right now. His favourite ally, his old co-conspirator, the only person he might consider a friend once, came back. Alive. And that should have lifted some worries off his shoulder, should it not? It should not be adding another layer of anxiety that keeps rising and rising with every new wave of earthquakes. 

Yes the Dark Urge was not the person they used to be. They... he changed. All his memories lost; mind wiped clear. Gortash tried to persuade himself that it still could have been fine, they could build their alliance and their trust once more. But he apparently mistook the thunderstorm for sunshine peeking from behind the clouds.

And so this is how they apparently got to this point. What does he means by ‘you need to abandon your plans’ ? Gortash is almost tempted to ask him. Almost. He does not though. Because such an idiotic unprompted suggestion does not even deserve to have anyone pointing out how nonsensical it is.

“This Absolute scheme of yours-“ the Dark Urge tries to continue but Gortash interrupts to correct him.

“Of ours! It used to be our plan. We stole the crown and the Netherstones together. We came up with the plan together. We -“

“Exactly. It used to be our plan.”

“And it will be once more. It was born only thanks to both of our brilliant minds working together. It failed only because we were apart, together nothing will stop us again.” There is earnestness in his voice. More than he usually allows to slip there but he is getting desperate. Frustrated. Why does his only ally not listen, what is so hard to understand about his words?

 The Dark Urge sighs, as if he got any rights to be exhausted or annoyed by their current conversation. “My point here is that it’s not too late. You can still change,” he flails his hand towards him in offering. A creature who used to be an omen of death trying to play the role of divine saviour. “Release all the people you hold captive, dismantle your Steel Watch, help us take the Netherbrain down. It is not too late. You can still redeem yourself.”

Gortash stares blankly at the stranger who dares to wear the face of the only person who was ever worthy of his respect. And what the fuck is he talking about?

“My soul belongs to Bane the same as yours belongs to Bhaal. There is no point trying to assign any morality to our actions. Only thing that matters is whether they align with the wishes of our gods. And they approved of our scheme and goal.”

The Dark Urge laughs but there is no amusement in his words. “You see, I couldn't care less what Bhaal thinks and wants me to do.” Be careful what you wish for. Gortash hoped, imagined, what kind of alliance they could have, what they could achieve, if the bhaalspawn severed the connections to his heritage, if only he could be unburdened by his urges and his godly father’s demands.

This is not what Gortash had in mind. He takes in a deep breath, trying to find footing, next words to say.

“Bhaal be damned, all gods be damned. This is not about them, this is about you and I, this is about us ! The offer I made you-“

“I am not interested,” he cuts him short before Gortash can even paint him the glorious future he imagined for them. But that is the real problem here, is it not? It is not just the two of them against the world. With his mind broken and memories scattered, the Dark Urge naively decided to put his trust into anyone and everyone who crossed his path till now.

“You or your new ‘friends’ whispering poison to your ears?” Gortash remarks, bitterness and accusation dripping of his words.

“None of us,” he shrugs, “But their opinion does not seem to matter too much to you, so I am making my position clear. For quite obvious reasons they would be against me talking to you right now and offering you this chance. They seek to destroy the Iron Throne and Steel Watch Foundry. And then kill you too of course.”

The Dark Urge hands him so casually a declaration that plans to betray him have already been made despite his generous offer. What a pitiful threat that should get him and all his allies killed immediately. And Gortash could kill him if he wanted. His guards are just one call away, his room full of traps ready to be triggered, his crossbow leaning against the chair he is sitting on. And he is here all alone.

In what feels like a lifetime ago, Gortash knew that none of those things would be enough to stop his beautiful murderous bhaalspawn. The Dark Urge used to be able to take down a small army and still come on top covered in blood and laughing. However, this is not his Dark Urge; the pathetic creature he has become Gortash could probably kill all by himself. He should. He will probably have to…

“You are a fool and idiot for thinking you can come here, blabber your nonsense and then, what? Threaten me?” The frustration of his words falling to deaf ears is quickly turning to anger. The Dark Urge refuses to hear him, to listen. He just keeps spitting this nonsense. And worst of all he remains so cold, so unaffected, the entire time.

Like this conversation does not really mean anything to him.

“It is not a threat. I am just saying things as they are. And I only came here to make an offer.“

“You cannot make an offer when you have nothing to bargain with. What do you even hope to achieve? Are you trying to appeal to my better nature? You are wasting my time!” Gortash rises from his chair. Wanting to leave and end this stupid conversation. Wanting to hit him and then keep beating him till he starts thinking clearly again. Wanting to get at least some reaction from him…

“Enver-“

“Do not! Do not call me that! You have no right to call me that name!”

“Lord-… oh, apologies, Archduke Enver Gortash it is then?” he asks and a bit of mockery slides into their tone and for a few seconds his voice sounds so sickeningly familiar. And it is too much. Gortash feels heavy in his chest as if he just squeezed his heart the way he always promised him he will do one day. Feelings of grief he never allowed himself to feel after he disappeared, feelings he thought that he buried starts crawling from their graves.

Enver Gortash had enough.

“Get out,” his voice is cold and full of resentment that might not be aimed entirely at just his former ally. But he does not allow himself to think about it.

“I just had to try,” the Dark Urge sighs and gets up  and turns his back towards him. Ready to leave, just like that. And he does not even sound really bothered, it does not even really matter to him. And as much as Gortash has not planned to say another word to him he relents because he has to ask, he want to know-

“Why?”

The Dark Urge looks back at him. There is sadness… no, not sadness – pity, in his scarlet eyes. “I think, the person I used to be, cared about you greatly. I owed it to them to try to deal with this peacefully.”

How dares he-

“If you wish to execute any favours for your past self you should slit your throat. That is what they would wish for, if they saw you now.”

The Dark Urge- no, the pathetic imposter with the same face, using the same name, chuckles. There is an edge in their tone that cuts like a dagger. “But they do not. They are dead. I am not them and they have no control over what action I will and will not take. Neither does Bhaal. And neither do you.”

“I never tried to control you, not before, not now” Gortash exclaims and it is only a half lie. He indeed never tried to control them directly, “I offered you an alliance of equals. Back then and now again, but you just spit in my face. Refuse my generosity!”

The Dark Urge steps closer to him and Gortash straightens up. They are looking into each other's eyes, both trying to find something that so clearly is not there. But at least now they emotions match. Both furious, both exasperated, both failing to understand the other.

“You are the one who stubbornly refuses to listen to what I am saying. But as you wish. I will do much more than just ‘spit in your face’. I hope you are not attached to your Foundry too much!”

“Go ahead. At least I know where I will find your corpse to pick the Netherstones from.”

There is a moment of silence. The Dark Urge is the first one to break their staring contest, taking his leave and this time for good.

“I will take it as that you gave me your final word.”

“That I did,” Gortash confirms. And this is the end then. Because his former ally starts walking away and Gortash cannot stop himself from feeling a pang of disappointment because… what? Their discussion led nowhere, of course there is no point to continue in it. He himself asked the other to leave. Neither of them would get anywhere if their argument continues. Why should Gortash care that he gave up so easily…

“Just so you know…” the Dark Urge stops in front of the window through which he got inside and through which he clearly intends to leave once more. “I think that if things were different I would have gotten to like you again,” he says and disappears.

Why… why would he say something like that?

Gortash cannot really ask him as he is already gone. He falls back into his chair. All the rumbling anger suddenly overshadowed by confusion. And is he… trembling? His eyes sting and when he raises his hand to them, he is surprised to find there tears.

It is the middle of night in the city of Baldur's Gate and in the hours far away both from midnight as well as morning archduke Enver Gortash sits all alone by the unlit fireplace finally caught up by grief that is long overdue. As if only now it finally hit him that his Dark Urge is dead for good.

[annabelle-creart]

hi im here to pitch an idea like you're my boss asking for the weekly report.

I was thinking about the Wildbreak time travel au and Wildbreak is a member of the stunticons, and the stunticons' goal was to control all the roads on earth (presumably because they conquered the roads of cybertron or attempted to), so what if in the au timeline, the stunticons still try to control all the roads (on cybertron) but legally, as in they become the law force, which can explain why Wildbreak was investigating the time scientist guy, cause the time guy is trying to disrupt the law of the roads.

I also thought this could help explain how he ended up joining the stunticons in the time travel timeline, since they existed prior in his timeline, but the stunticons in Wildbreak's supposed timeline aren't like a sg situation, cause dragstrip would still be bellitling and heatseeker would still retain his explosive and calculating personality.

So, if I understand, you're meaning that when Wildbreak traveled he got into stunticons, who, in those times were like law forces and that's why they controlled Cybertron's streets, and that's the reason he got into investigating the case of the scientist-buisness woman (is a girl, yeah) on Earth when Cybertron got fuck up

I think I get it and I like it!

So, to mix it with what I have (some cooking here👇, this kitchen is on fire):

A mysterious woman with a lot of good tech and a terrible family history decided she wanted more than she has, she had already an entire city for herself, but she wanted more, and to do that, she had just the best for it

After the unfortunate's Doc Greene's passing, fortunately after a good life and at a long age, some of his plains were mysteriously stolen away from his daughter's hands, just three to be exact, plains the Detective Chase, the ex-wrecker and now police officer Breakdown and Knock Out, their assistent and med bot were assigned in first line to get back, for their unluck, their newspark was more smart than they thought and managed to pass all the restrictions his uncles gave him, including his cousins and Quickcall's (his older brother) orders. It was common for Wildbreak to make them company on their missions, why they would keep him away in this one?

What dear Wildbreak didn't knew was that one of the plains that were stolen was a time machine, and the scientist was not just trying to get all the roads of the country, but wanted used the machine to go back in time to end with some "buisnesess" her father left her, the buisnesses that made her miserable and she had to restore when he died, she was a great weapon-dealer, but she also as smart, and clever, she knew Transformers are not yet well-welcomed on Earth and she used that rage of the people, so, they will to use her merchandise, especially when she found by accident a little "child" that could be more than perfect for her deals with the species

Everything was personal for Clementine if it was related with Silas, but nothing was personal related with Transformers, unfortunately for them, she has an inheritance of Cybertronian hate, and good weapons

The day she finally managed to make work the time machine, the break was made, Chase, Breakdown, their newest member, Nightshade and a group of S.W.A.T humans were there about to finally get the woman who had control over almost 3 ilegal streets that crossed over 5 states and the frontiers of both north and south, until Nightshade noticed too late the machine became unstable and someone was near, too big to be a human but too tiny to be a bot. Almost like a black hole, the machine eated as much as it could, only metal and scrap, and a child Clementine forgot she had on her possesion and Chase and Breakdown didn't knew was out of Griffin Rock in first place, Knock Out almost throwed himself in the hole if it wasn't for Chase's perfect reflexes, and when enough scrap that made the machine work was consumed, it shouted off, leaving injured and scared humans, and three confused, sad and angry bots

...

Unfortunately for dear Wildbreak, time-travel is not common on Cybertron, wait, the machine was also capable of getting him in any place? It was also capable of change the space? It sure did, because he, who never stepped on the dead Cybertron, was into all it's vibrant color and horrible system, he was taught to call an adult in emergence cases, and to make it worse, Wildbreak didn't existed on the system, he said he had almost 6 years of being created but that time-system doesn't exist and he looks recently-created, he also said his creators were, at seemed, a lost-in-space bot, dissapeared for almost a decacycle, a med bot that lives on another planet, and a wrecker, a type of bot that is not allowed to have sparklings on their care, and with no other rather than taking him to an orphanage, he met a sparkling, faster and bravier, Wildbreak had good technique and was smart, but he is weak and of soft constitution, but Dragstrip was brilliant, faster and stronger, and thanks to his papa's t-cog, Wildbreak was compatible to be a combiner, many doors closed when Wildbreak got tangled with Dragstrip, but he was now his older brother, and the "best door" was still open for him...

For the entire prelude of the war and a genocide, five stunticons were now rulers of the streets, both as forcers of law and corrupted sparks, chaos gave order thanks to them, and thanks to a story of lies and fear, Wildbreak never forgot what he was taught, but forgot most of who taught him all of that, the clawed servos that taught him to repair his favorite toys, the brilliant eyes that taught him to give his first fist and the solid voice that taught him to be safe and to care for others, he never forgot because it was useful, but after time and time of been told nothing of what he says have sense, he decided to ignore the funny feeling and get back to the present, which with each strike became harder to handle, until he and his new brothers didn't have other but to stay alive by getting into a team, Rescue Bots were falling like scraplets on fire, and Autobots were crazy for restoring things like old, Decepticons were their future just as their glory and chaos promises, what a better place to be than Decepticon territory, he was scared and had a feeling nothing would go as planned, but he has it all the time, it is not surprise, nobody paid him attention and so he didn't, and now here they were, stuck on a mud planet after running from Velocitron's council who wanted them death for "being traitors"

Again on the plan like the old times, they decided to got into controlling the streets, if it wasn't for Bumblebee and his weirdos' team and that woman "Cleminen" who already had a lot of things and streets, and of course those 4 bots that followed them and always mention that "Climenten" and to make things worse, the fact the Cybertronian child that woman keeps close is too similar and is also named Wildbreak, the rest of stunticons laugh of it but Wildbreak has this strange feeling he is missing something, like he was supposed to know something, the same song travels on his head, something related to an angel, those things that nobody knows about on Cybertron, and those bots that follow him and his brothers are too similar to some bots he already met, but how?

Two days after the collision and with Clementine and most of her team dissapeared, Drag thought it was a good moment to do a joke related to a "Kaze" Wildbreak always mentions, and the other two, "Knout" and "Breave"? And how similar they seem to be to the bots that are following them, and like dynamite, something in Wildbreak's spark iluminated, something too deep to notice, but felt like it was on the border of his glossa "where's the sparkling?" Wildbreak said to himself.

[thebeastofblackmoor]

honest CW Drew Crew endings

Nancy: After multiple seasons spent wondering if her Hudson lineage made her a bad person, her fears are confirmed! Her soul was that of one of the original Hudsons who was the ultimate oppressor and sacrificed children to create monsters that would erase crimes from memory to defend perpetrators. Explicitly out of guilt, Nancy takes to the road alone to erase these beasts from the face of the world. She's in a distance relationship with Ace, though, so that's all we care about.

Ace: Despite being a genius computer hacker, Ace decides to get into medical examination. (Also alone and far away!) I guess the problem with getting a job in the field he was truly gifted at wasn't that he was having a hard time motivating himself or that he didn't have a good group to support him, but that he was not working with corpses! Despite having claimed in the past that he's never had a group of friends like the Drew Crew and showing no interest in the medical field before last season, he leaves them all to pursue medical examination. Except Nancy, who he's doing long distance with I guess.

Bess: After having been kicked out of no fewer than three households in her life and spending her entire childhood friendless and family-less, Bess's first actual home is burned down by an angry mob and her friends all leave town. She is explicitly devastated by this, but don't worry, this sudden and complete massively triggering abandonment is played for laughs! And she has a girlfriend, so rest assured she couldn't be happier.

George: After having been forced to work her entire life to support her sisters, George selects a notoriously difficult, stressful, and cutthroat career path. I guess she's passionate about it, although like Ace, she's never shown interest in being a lawyer for more than a season. We are informed that her mother just... got better offscreen and that her sisters are grown now! (After one in-universe year.) Rather than finally being able to settle down in her home and be cared for alongside her sisters, she also leaves Horseshoe Bay to hit the grindset far far away from her friends and family. But she's not alone! She has the most boring and random man in existence with whom she has 0 chemistry and we've almost never seen her interact with. Seriously, this is a good thing for her, trust us!!

Nick: Nick's ending is the only one that makes even a little sense, since he has had a long-established interest in tinkering and technology and had an established rapport with Tom Swift. However, the career that he got with Swift Industries is only brought up in the very last scene, presumably because the writers had to pull something out of their asses to justify him leaving Horseshoe Bay, too. He also has an eleventh-hour significant other to run off with.

Seriously, I get that the ending of everyone going their separate ways is supposed to feel "realistic" and like everyone is prioritizing their own happiness, but I am baffled by the fact that anyone in the writer's room thought these were good endings. Everyone's paths came out of nowhere and were way too sudden to feel realistic. The writers love to gripe that they weren't given the time to do the ending they really wanted to pull off, but if that's the case, then they should have adapted the ending accordingly! If they didn't have time to set up all these individual career paths, they should have worked with what they had set up. If they didn't have time to get us to love new romantic interests, just scrap that altogether; not everyone needs to be neatly paired off with someone. If they weren't able to show all the magical Horseshoe Bay adventures they wanted to, they should have left the group intact so that the audience could imagine more and the group would still feel whole rather than randomly and swiftly disbanded, especially since they only did one year of in-universe time, and that leads me to believe the Drew Crew will not keep in close contact. It's not like they're long-term friends.

The focus on everyone having a relationship and a career that trumps their friendship and established happiness in Horseshoe Bay just feels icky to me. Like the writers thought that having a high-powered career and an SO--no matter how irrelevant both are to the established character--is the only way to have happy ending and are the only things that matter.

[thebluestbluewords]

cinderellaverse?? In my 2024??

it’s more likely than you think!

(for context: the rotten ot4 are wildly codependent, Ben is possibly seducing them all via unreciprocated acts of kindness, and this takes place directly after the iconic Good Boy scene, only with some AU changes that aren’t ready to post yet).

(why am i posting this if no other context is finished yet??? Because I’m needy and crave validation. Next question, please).

+

“Ugh,” Mal agrees. She looks mostly asleep still, which is understandable. “Weird. Did you eat yet?” 

Carlos lifts the napkin-wrapped bundle in his hands. “I brought food. To share. If you want.” 

This, predictably, gets Mal up. They’re far enough away from the isle that Carlos can almost believe that their parents aren’t lurking behind every dark corner of the castle, but not so far that they’ll turn down fresh food, even at stupid early hours.

“Berries?” 

“Yeah. Brought berries for you. And muffins.” 

“Evie wants chocolate,” Mal says immediately, stretching out both hands for the napkin-wrapped bundle. “And weird that Ben made you meet someone new. I thought we’d already been subjected to every princess-type in the school by now.” 

“Not a person. He made me meet a— a dog.” 

Mal stops with the muffins in her hands still outstretched. “Oh,” she says carefully, which is nice of her. Their Auradon education must be kicking in, or some shit. “And you’re not halfway home?” 

“I was. But Ben sort of—put the dog away and tracked me down? He was cool about it. We went over afterwards to check out the stables, cause he thought maybe it was like, just animals I don’t like, and they’ve got cats and stuff there. And the dog was on a leash, and he’s actually super tiny and not murderous.” Carlos shrugs, telegraphing the motion as much as he can. Which isn’t much. He’s supposed to be working on the whole expressing emotions thing. Even though it’s so much easier to shut down entirely whenever he feels an emotion. “So yeah. Still alive, still here! And Ben’s being weird.” 

“Weird how?” 

“Just weird. He was being all nice and stuff. D’you think he’s been bribed by Fairy Godmother to get info on us?” 

“Might be,” Mal agrees, tearing into her muffin. She’s unwrapped the whole bundle, and laid them out in an order that’s got to make sense in her head. (it shouldn’t make sense. They can’t afford to be predictable. Predictable is how you get your lunch stolen, or poisoned, or eaten by pirates who think it’s funny to take a perfectly rotten sandwich and swap it out for seaweed slime). “You should eat though. You didn’t tell him anything, right?” 

Carlos pulls a scrap off the cinnamon sugar muffin. It’s the one Mal’s put in his assigned spot, which is directly across from her own, with Evie’s double chocolate on the left and Jay’s lemon poppyseed on the right. He’s not really hungry, but it’s still too much to turn down food, so he rolls it between his fingers until half of the sugar falls off into the napkin, and the rest of it is compressed into the smallest possible ball of muffin flesh. He can eat a little piece of it, and then Mal will stop asking, and he can eat for real later. Once he’s alone. 

He pops the ball of muffin into his mouth. “No. Not really.” 

Mal shoves another mouthful of muffin into her mouth. She picked the blueberry one, and it turns the whole mess of it vividly purple as she chews. “Cool. He’s probably just being a royal brat then, trying to get some new intel for the gossip mill. But hey, it’s cool that he showed you the stables. Maybe next time we need to get to town you can steal us a horse, yeah?” 

Carlos snorts. He’s seen a horse now, and there’s no way they can get away with stealing something that big and ornery. Cars might be bigger, but they don’t bite and they don’t poop and they don’t have teeth the size of his fingers and a desire to bite through anything that looks even remotely like a carrot. “Yeah, no. Horses are fucking giant.” 

“I wouldn’t know,” Mal says casually. She throws one of her loose berries up so she can catch it in her teeth. Sometimes, when it’s just the four of them, Mal forgets to act human and does things like this. Things where she snatches treats out of the air with her teeth, when her neck bends in ways that a human’s shouldn’t, like she’s forgotten that she only has seven bones in her neck and not seventeen like a standard dragon. “Nobody ever wakes me up at the crack of dawn to show me cool shit.” 

Carlos wants to laugh and make this whole thing normal, but he’s fucking exhausted and the cinnamon sugar from the muffin is sticky on his fingers. He’s been trying to pull it apart carefully so that his whole hands don’t get covered in the crumbly topping, but that’s been working about as well as their escape plan so far, which is to say not at fucking all. “Yeah, yeah. He also made us run laps first, don’t be jealous.” 

Mal snaps her teeth. “I’ll be whatever I want. He didn’t do anything else?“ 

“Nope.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes, mom. He just wanted to talk a bunch about how we’re settling in. And how we’re doing emotionally.”