#and it's always for the same reasons. every time. there's nothing new under the sun

[hearttdesires]

every right - part 2

part 1

this is a loooong one.. or at least for me lol, I've never written so much please please please send any feedback , i’m soo glad you guys enjoyed part one 🤍 I think after this part, I'll start making little one shots so you can fully experience why the reader was so hurt thank you for readinggg 🫶🏽🫶🏽

p.s. this is no shade towards olivia; i wish I was living her life right about NOW 🫠

time skip - 1 year later

your drive home after a long weekend in the hamptons was nothing less but a drag. you didn’t care how long the drive was, you were still high on life after a weekend with your girls.

the weekend was full of drinks, the sun, and parties with rich hot men. as always the girls were always trying to pimp you out whether it be for more alcohol or just for you to have fun.

after last year’s fiasco with Joe, you sure as hell needed it. they say the best way to get over someone, is to get under someone else. you’ve maybe followed that rule a handful of times. you’ve come across maybe 2 good competitors against joe’s game in bed.

maybe you couldn’t find much competition because you had actual feelings for him.

after joe had left that morning, he had texted you. you couldn’t even see past the tears , but still somehow managed to block him. when he couldn’t reach you from his personal cell, he tried from his work phone, and you ended up having to block that number too.

you couldn’t ever fully let him go. if a news article or an interview of his came up, you watched or read a bit.

your entire weekend in the hamptons, the girls had set one rule: don’t check up on him at all.

you listened & somehow managed to miss the biggest article of them all.

star quarterback: back on the market, model: heartbroken in the hamptons

you arrived home and settled in on your couch. immediately you’re getting a call the second you sit down. you look at your phone and see it’s Gabby calling.

“miss me already?” you pick up the phone. “duh. just pack new clothes and come back. my pool boy is cleaning up for us now” she laughs as she talks about her husband. as a wedding gift, his parents bought them a house up in Montauk. he didn’t mind Gabby hosting a girls weekend.

“anyways the real reason i called. i know we banned you from checking anything related to mr. qb, but a big one came out during the weekend.” Gabby rambled.

“ugh. what, he proposed? or is she pregnant? cause that would be-“ Gabby was quick to cut you off. “he ended it, IN THE HAMPTONS” you sat up so quick.

“wait- they were there?” you were fully sat up now, going online to search for said article. “yeah there’s pictures of her literally leaving the hotel in tears”

how ironic that you, joe, and Barbie would be in the same area all at the same time.

“i wonder why. he’s had a good year, career wise.” you finally found the article, but it didn’t give you any good information. “maybe she’s just not want he wanted”

“apparently. anyways, i’ll call you later. i’m gonna head to the gym and sweat out all this alcohol” “okay, love ya.” “love you more” you hung up the phone and took a breath.

you couldn’t believe they were done. you couldn’t even remember if they ever made it ‘official’.

after changing, you gathered all your things you’d need for the gym and packed it into your duffel bag. you grabbed your keys and opened your door.

only find those bright blue eyes that brought you right back to a year ago..

his hand was in his mouth biting at his nails, which you hated. you used to always smack his hand away when you saw it.

you guys stood there for what felt like years before joe mustered up a simple “hey”.

joe’s POV:

there she was, in all her beauty and her glory.

i sat in a private, darker section of the restaurant with a couple of the guys.

we had Michael Ruben’s White Party yesterday and the guys weren’t ready to go back to reality yet. they wanted away from their girlfriends and their situationships as much as i did, so why not have a guys dinner.

the restaurant starts cleaning the plates off everyone’s tables and this is when it started turning into a club vibe. the music got louder, and all i can focus on is her.

we didn’t go down to the bar much, Ja’Marr and Tee went down because they wanted to talk and meet people. i stood near the edge of the upstairs section and sipped on my corona.

i watch as her friends keep bringing trays of shots to your table and you keep hammering it back. soon enough, other guys are coming up to you and sweet talking you.

it took every bit of restraint to not go over and drag you away from them. i had no right, you made that clear when you blocked me on everything a year ago.

you missed my burner account. i’d check up on your socials when olivia’s not around or if i was in a mood late at night..

other than that, i had no way of seeing anything you posted.

in the middle of my trance, i see Tee and Ja’Marr talking to girls at the table next to you. no doubt, you know they’re my friends, so i send a text to both of them to stay away from you. i didn’t want to alarm you or have you running away to god knows where.

i so badly wanted to go up to you and apologize for everything. doesn’t help you looked so good in a mini skirt and a tank top that had your entire back exposed.

the night carries on and i watched as you’re giggling at something a guy whispered in your ear. this one has been with you for over an hour, and keeps feeding you drinks on drinks. watching you with someone else, feels like someone just kept stabbing me in the stomach over and over.

Tee and Ja’Marr made their way back up with a girl on both of their sides. “Yo man, you ready?” I took one more look at you for good measure and nod. i place my now warm beer on the table. The security for upstairs led us out the back door and to our car services.

Olivia at this point was blowing up my phone because i told her i was going to be home way sooner.

how do i tell her that you distracted me all night? that i didn’t want to let you out of my sight.

i lock my phone and just stare out the window, dreading getting to the hotel room we’re sharing.

i walk through the door and see Olivia pouting while taking off her makeup. “finally. where have you been?” i had zero patience for anything she had to say right now.

“out” i walk in the bathroom and start undressing. “what’s your problem today?” i hear her voice getting closer to the bathroom.

“nothing, just leave it alone” at this point she’s standing at the door with her arms across her chest. “obvi it’s something, just say it” her voice was literally piercing my ears at this point.

“jesus christ, just leave me alone” i leave the bathroom with a huff and finish changing in the bedroom.

it’s not her fault I’m upset, everything is my own fault. losing you, getting into whatever olivia and i were, all of it.

she walks back into the bedroom and sits at the edge of the bed. i say in almost a whisper “i can’t do this anymore.”

“i can’t hear you joe, you’re mumbling” she rolls her eyes. “i’m done. i can’t do this anymore” i say pointing at the both of us.

“you can’t leave me” she says with tears welling up in her eyes. “it’s better for the both of us, if you need to stay here for the night, that’s fine. i’ll just -“ she starts packing all her things in a rush.

“olivia.. just stay. i’ll be gone by the morning” i say trying to reason with her. she’s shaking her head no, but isn’t saying anything.

she didn’t have much as this was only a weekend trip. most things got sent back with a stylist anyways. “if it’s worth anything, i’m sorry.” i say as she’s putting a sweater on.

“whoever she is, i hope she’s worth it” she said before walking out the door. i sat on the edge of the bed and let out a sigh of relief.

you're worth everything..

-

i slept hard for the first time in a long time. slept past 8 am even. i looked over at my phone and saw the articles pouring in already about olivia leaving last night.

ja’marr and tee had texted seeing if i wanted to go for a morning workout and maybe brunch after. we were set to leave tomorrow night back to cincinnati.

i sent a thumbs up and got up to go to the gym with them.

we all met in the hotel’s private gym for just the higher class celebrities. i found it to be quite pretentious, but it was good for what you guys were about to talk about.

i was the last to arrive. when the door shut behind me, they were already running up asking what happened.

“is this about that girl last night?” Tee said. “she was fine, you’re lucky you texted because she was next up and i wasn’t going to let her go easy” Ja’Marr said laughing.

i smiled and shoved his shoulder. “yeah we met about two years ago. she’s the most genuine, beautiful human being i know.. and seeing her last night.. i don’t know man.” i start stretching out my arms and legs.

“when you know, you know I guess” Tee chimed in. “so what’re you gonna do about it?” Ja’Marr asked abruptly.

“i don’t know..” i said staring into space, my mind running wild.

your pov:

“hi..” you said confused. your head was spinning really. you had just found out they broke up, and now he’s here on your doorstep.

"hey" you couldn't help but giggle a bit. "you said that already"

"right.. um can we talk? inside preferably.." he said rubbing at his neck. "I guess my gym session can wait" you step back and open the door wider for him to come in. “thanks” he mumbled walking through your threshold.

you put your stuff down by the door and follow him to your living room. you see him standing in the middle looking around. “something’s new..”

“i got new couches, and repainted.. but you didn’t come here to talk about my renovations joe..” you sat down on the couch and he walked over to sit next to you.

“i just wanted to start with i’m sorry. for last year and everything leading up to it. you definitely did not deserve what i did to you.” you could tell in his eyes that he was really sincere.

“i appreciate the apology joe, but it’s been a year.. don’t think that i’ve been waiting all this time for that..” you never held a grudge that he didn’t apologize. if anything you just wished that he was honest

“why are you really here joe?” you sat up straighter now. you decided to test him, say what really happened. his chance to be fully honest.

“i fucked up. i think i did- no, I still do have feelings for you. i’ve missed you every day since last year.. seeing you in the hamptons just screwed my head back into place.” his blue eyes were burning into your soul.

“i ended it with olivia the second i got back to my hotel, and i truly don’t regret it at all.” you shake your head in disbelief.

“but see that’s my problem. everyone is disposable to you. how do i know next year, you won’t switch up and go running to another model? even worse, back to olivia?” joe's quick to take your hand in his.

“trust me, I truly do not think I can live without you” you were ready to throw up from how dizzy this man is making you.

“so what do we do from here?” you say as he scoots closer to you. "we take it day by day." his arm goes behind you and he wraps you up in them.

"and what about paparazzi and all that?" you ask. Joe lays his head on your chest and sighs. "I'll never be able to escape them, but can we be.. you know.. private?"

you giggle at his statement. "baby I'm not no celebrity, I know when and where to speak. but there's a difference between secret and private; and I'm not going to be no secret" you run your hands through his hair as you guys lay there.

"I know you're too gorgeous not to share with the world; I promise you're not a secret. my boys already know about you." he laughs to himself, thinking how he had left the boys in the gym to get to your house as fast as possible.

Joe cuddled deeper into you and you all of a sudden felt a wave of sleep creep over.

"I think my lack of sleep from the Hamptons is catching up to me" you let out a big yawn. Joe followed suit. "Let's go nap" he stands up and holds his hand out for you to take.

Thinking he was just helping you up, he took your hand and basically tossed you over his shoulder to go to your room. "maybe we can get freaky after our nap" he says while walking up the stairs with an overjoyed woman on his shoulder.

"you're ridiculous, you know that?"

"oh, I know sweetheart" as he pats your butt walking into your room.

[ghosts-and-glory]

Is Shamura training martial arts after being taken into Lamb's cult? If they enjoyed complexity and bloodshed of war than it'd be probably dissapointing for them if they had to... drop it all

Full under the cut because this turned out really long

Upon joining the cult Shamura was a shell of their former self. They join the cult dissenting, the long term effects of the crown still clawing at the edges of their mind, but after a few days they’re mortal, just themself. Without the crown to hold them together they suffer like their injury was yesterday.

The Lamb has the doctor, Puar, perform their usual tests on them. Shamura is hardly there. They don’t know their own name, can hardly speak, can’t stand or track movement.

There was no wisdom in their slurred words. No power in the way their hands shook.

The outlook is bad.

The Lamb doesn’t really want to help them, after everything, why should they. Shamura who had The Lamb’s entire race and family killed, who killed them aswell and countless of their followers. It would cost them so much, to try and help someone who spent so long just trying to destroy them and everything they had. The time, energy, resources it would cost and they didn’t even know if they could get better.

Deciding it wasn’t worth it was one thing, but getting the other ex bishops to understand was a whole other, even the doctor disagreed with them.

Dr Puar took on being their primary caregiver. They’d been a doctor for the past hundred years and seen concussions and dementia but nothing nearly as severe as this. They wanted to help Shamura but didn’t know how.

It wasn’t until Narinder joined the cult that The Lamb saw any reason to help Shamura. But there was something wrong with him and Shamura knew something, they just had to get to it.

Kallamar was the ex bishop Puar wanted the help from the most. He was scared of the lamb and red crown but he loved Shamura more.

The Lamb took Puar and Kallamar to the ruins of the temples in Anchordeep and Silk Cradle. They spent days digging through the decimated remains of the libraries for something, anything on this type of injury.

It seemed that they where looking down possible years of intense recovery. Needed herbs and medicines that may no longer exist, techniques Puar had never heard of. But they would try.

Puar took careful and detailed notes. Timed Shamura’s responses, wrote down everything they said, tracked eating, drinking, sleeping and every symptom they displayed. Improvements where slow and sometimes nonexistent at first. They took full minutes to respond and only in single words, barley moved, couldn’t feed themselves and suffered constant migraines.

The one thing that seemed to help them the most was their siblings. They didn’t remember them most days but every time one of they came to check in it raised their spirits. One of their faces was the only thing they could focus on sometimes.

Kallamar insisted he wasn’t a doctor but still worked around the infirmary, helping Shamura was the only thing he’d do without complaining. Heket spent hours sitting in silence with them, brought them food and flowers and changed their bandages. Leshy was the only thing that could get them to smile and they where the only person he would ever lower his voice for, he told them stories even though they hardly listened.

Improvements brought new challenges. They got better at speaking full sentences and following conversations but it revealed how fractured their memory was. Forgetting names, places and important events, how often they forgot where they where, they asked the same questions over and over again.

They complained of seeing and hearing things, phantom pains with seemingly no rhyme or reason. The sun hurt their eyes, rain gave them headaches, always sleeping but always tired. They would suddenly backslide constantly. One day could walk with minimal help and the next, couldn’t even hold a pen in their hand. Have a full conversation one day and hardly spit out their name tomorrow.

Until the day Puar looked Shamura in the eye and for once they saw him. Didn’t look past them with their blank stare but looked at them. They would ask to sit outside at night in the fresh air. They seemed to know now who they are, what they where, what they lost. A tinge of grief in their words.

Improvements brought frustration. On days they remembered who they where they were overcome with a mix of anger, guilt and despair. They where a god. They had bore down on armies, killed men with a twitch of a finger, brought other gods to their knees, and now they could hardly bring a cup to their mouth.

Emotionally, their siblings said they’d never seen them like this before. Before Shamura could be frustrated but their temper was cold and quiet. Now they wore a short fuse and suffered constant mood swings. It angered them that they couldn’t read, that their hands were numb, that they couldn’t walk without a cane, couldn’t go out in the sun, couldn’t string a full sentence together, couldn’t recognize their siblings faces, couldn’t feed themselves, couldn’t sleep without drugs, everything they lacked and lost wore them down.

Regardless, they where unusually steadfast. They would always pick back up. If they got frustrated they would try again in a few days. They tried anything Puar asked of them, anything for the smallest iota of improvement.

The outlook was better.

—————

This got out of control and took me like three days between the art and write up. I got really excited when I saw this ask cause the answer is so devastating. If I was taking Narinder’s trauma seriously I’m not gonna just ignore Shamura’s traumatic brain injury.

As a side note, I’m very unsure how to write the medical stuff, my guess is that cotl is based around 1300’s-1700’s but that’s a wide net to cast. My excuse for the stronger understanding of medicine and trauma is magic.

[throttleheart]

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

something so soft, it breaks

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader

Genre: angst with soft slow-burn undertone, unspoken love, emotional intimacy, suppressed feelings, vulnerability

Word Count: ~1.6k

Summary: You love Lando, and it’s completely, utterly breaking your porcelain heart.

Inspired by the song Fragile by Laufey

Masterlist

⸻

It always starts the same.

The door clicks shut behind him like it’s nothing—like it’s normal, him showing up at your flat without warning, shoulders slouched with exhaustion and a half-smile that makes your stomach fold in on itself.

You always act like it’s no big deal. Like you haven’t been hoping he’d show up for days.

He always tosses his shoes somewhere haphazardly, grabs a drink from your fridge like it’s his own.

And then he finds you—curled up on the couch, an old record spinning low in the background, the soft amber glow of the lamp painting the room in warmth that feels like a lie.

Will you let me come closer to you

I know that you’re older, but what can I do

I leave in the morning, I’ll forget that I am surely falling

⸻

“I still don’t get this song,” Lando says as he plops down next to you, your blanket shifting from the impact. “You always play it when it’s quiet like this.”

You shrug. “It makes the quiet feel like something.”

He looks at you then, head tilted like he’s trying to understand something just out of reach. “It’s kinda sad.”

“It’s honest,” you say softly.

And that’s all you say.

Because if you say more, you might say too much. You might say that every lyric feels like your chest cracking open. That you’ve been falling for him in silence for what feels like forever. That his presence feels like holding your breath.

Grew up in a case of fragile glass

But hammer away, it’s time to crash

And as it shatters, let me shatter into you

⸻

He stretches out beside you, your legs tangled loosely together under the blanket. You don’t move. If you move, the moment might break.

He smells like rain and something warm—like airports and burnt toast and cologne rubbed off on hoodie sleeves. He’s so close. So real. So completely unreachable.

“You ever feel like that?” he asks suddenly. “Fragile?”

The word hangs there between you, weightless and heavy all at once.

You don’t look at him when you answer.

“…Yeah. All the time.”

And he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. He just shifts so that his arm brushes yours and looks at you like the world’s gone quiet.

“I never want to be the reason you feel like that,” he says.

And it breaks something in you.

Because he already is.

Not by anything he’s done. Just by being everything you can’t have.

Just by sitting here beside you like it doesn’t mean anything.

You swallow hard. Your voice feels like splintered glass when you finally lie.

“You’re not.”

And he smiles like he believes you.

God, you wish he didn’t.

The soft candle glow

The music so slow

Your skin on my skin

The room is spinning

Nerve on my bone

I’m shaking, oh no

I’m talking though I shouldn’t be

I’ve lost all sensibility

I’ve never been so fragile

⸻

That night stays with you.

Not for what happened, but for what didn’t.

He fell asleep with his head on your shoulder. You stayed still until your arm went numb.

You didn’t dare move.

You didn’t dare tell him that you could feel your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest just from the weight of his hair brushing your jaw.

The record spun out. The rain kept falling. And you memorized every detail like it was the last time he’d look at you like that.

You wonder if he knew.

You hope he didn’t.

You hope he did.

It’s been a year and 40 days

Since you picked me up and swept me away

I wanted to run with you into the midnight sun with you

⸻

Time passes in vague shapes. Races. Weeks. New songs. Empty chairs.

Lando still texts sometimes—photos of dogs in hotel lobbies, blurry sunsets from plane windows, clips of songs he says remind him of you.

But he doesn’t show up anymore.

Not like he used to.

You tell yourself you’re okay. You tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. You try not to flinch when someone says his name like it’s just another syllable.

But every time the song plays, it brings you right back.

To candlelight.

To silence.

To his shoulder pressed against yours and the words you didn’t say.

Now I sit around and rust in rain

Turn into dust as I just wait

For someone to hold me like you did that night I still remember

⸻

You play the record again tonight.

It sounds the same.

The music’s soft. The air is still. Your chest still hurts in that quiet, familiar way. You wonder if he ever thinks about that night. If he remembers how long you sat there, unmoving, hoping that somehow everything would stay exactly the same—even if it was already slipping away.

The soft candle glow

The music so slow

Your skin on my skin

The room kept spinning

Round, I’m alone

New town on my own

I’m missing you, I shouldn’t be

I’ve lost all sensibility

I’ve never been so fragile

Fragile

⸻

It’s almost midnight when the knock comes.

Three soft taps.

You freeze. Half-convinced it’s your imagination. No one knocks like that. No one you want to knock.

The record is still spinning in the corner—crackling, echoing, a ghost of that same night looping through your living room.

You stand slowly.

And when you open the door, it’s him.

Hair damp. Hoodie clinging to him from the drizzle. That same half-smile—but this time, it wavers.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s breathless. Like the word barely made it out. Like maybe it almost didn’t.

You stare at him, heart lodged somewhere in your throat. “What are you doing here?”

“I was driving. I wasn’t going anywhere, really, I just—” His voice catches, and he rakes a hand through his hair, looking suddenly unsure of himself. “I heard the song. Yours. The one you always play. And I just… I needed to see you.”

Your fingers curl against the frame of the door.

“You don’t get it,” you whisper. “You never got it.”

His gaze flickers, sharp and soft all at once. “I didn’t. Not then. I didn’t know what it meant to you. What I meant to you.”

Silence.

“I do now.”

The rain picks up outside, soft and steady against the awning. The song on the record player hits that fragile swell again. You wonder if the world is holding its breath the same way you are.

“You left,” you say, and it comes out broken. “You just stopped coming.”

“Because I thought I was hurting you.”

Your head snaps up.

“I saw it in your face that night,” he says, stepping closer. “The way you didn’t move when I leaned on you. The way your voice cracked. I didn’t know how to fix it. So I stayed away. I thought that was what you needed.”

Your chest aches.

“I needed you,” you whisper. “Even if it hurt. I just… I didn’t know how to stop wanting you.”

The air between you stretches—taut and trembling.

And then he’s in front of you. Close enough to count the freckles on his cheeks. To feel the rain still clinging to his hoodie. To see the way his throat bobs when he swallows.

“I never meant to be something you had to survive,” he says. “But if you’ll let me… I want to be more than that.”

You stare at him.

“Why now?”

“Because the song finally made sense.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “I was driving and it came on and I remembered everything. The light in your apartment. Your voice. That silence. And I realized I was in love with you the whole damn time and didn’t say it because I was scared you’d stop looking at me the way you do.”

Your breath stutters.

“I don’t look at you in any special way.”

“Yes, you do.” His voice is quiet. “You always have.”

Your heart cracks wide open.

And then you’re reaching for him—tentative, uncertain—fingertips brushing the edge of his sleeve. He doesn’t move. Just watches. Waits. Until you pull him inside and close the door behind him.

He looks around like he’s seeing it for the first time. Like it’s not just a flat, but something stitched with memory. With want. With you.

“I’ve missed this,” he says.

“Me too.”

He steps toward the record player, listening for a second before turning back to you. “You still play it.”

“It still feels true,” you say quietly.

His eyes soften.

“Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“Will you play it again? From the start?”

You walk over slowly, lifting the needle and placing it gently back at the beginning.

Will you let me come closer to you…

When you turn around, he’s standing right behind you.

And then—softly, cautiously—he lifts a hand to your face. Lets his fingers brush your cheek, then tangle gently in your hair. You lean into the touch before you can even stop yourself.

“I’m not going to run anymore,” he says. “If you still want me.”

“I never stopped.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft and trembling and real. The kind of kiss that feels like the first crack of sunlight after too many grey days. Like silence breaking. Like something fragile finally bending instead of breaking.

You stay wrapped in each other, swaying slightly to the music, the record spinning like a heartbeat behind you.

I’ve never been so fragile

Fragile

But this time, you’re not alone.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Masterlist

[shurisneakers]

saturn

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thinks he's past the point of insane.

__________

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

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

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

“Hey.”

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

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

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

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

________

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

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

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

“You get cell coverage out here?”

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

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

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

"And?"

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

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

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

"Sunlight? Water?"

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

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

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

“Do you want to?”

Bucky sharply shifts back into focus. “What?”

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

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

"Could be good for you."

""M done with that life." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

"Right. See you aro-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You would have loved it.

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

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

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

________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Strictly earthbound," he replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

__________

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

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

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

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

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

__________

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

And now he has something to tend to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hair tie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

___________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God of the Night Sky and A Man Too Slow.

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

____________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m gonna need to see some ID–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The bar-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you hungry?” you ask suddenly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just shuts up instead.

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

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

"Oh.”

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

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

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

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

“Humans think too much,” you say simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before it clicks, and his stomach drops.

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

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

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

And the hair tie. The fucking hair tie.

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

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

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

God of the Night, and Devil of Misery.

_______

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

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

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

_____________

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You found me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Humour me.”

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

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

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

“You know who,” he swallows thickly.

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

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

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

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

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

“Depends.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can.”

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

“But I won't.”

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

“Why?” His voice drops an octave.

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

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

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

“I’ll handle it. Whatever it is.”

“Can you?”

Bucky wavers, brows furrowing. “Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wanda’s chest rises and falls.

She closes her eyes. “Leave.”

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

______________

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

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

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

__________

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

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

Bucky doesn't try again.

__________

“Did you come up with the constellations?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky’s eyebrows raise.  

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

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

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

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

___________

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

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

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

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

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

And the earth stops spinning. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_______

"It's been a month."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can't guarantee that."

"Try not to die, then."

"Always."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please, don't try too hard."

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

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

"So, that's a yes then?"

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

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

____________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_________

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

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

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

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

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

__________

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

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

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

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

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

_____________

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

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

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

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

__________

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

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

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

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

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

The second he turns, you lay unmoving as before.

________

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bucky?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a start.

___________

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

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

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

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

“Buck,” you rasp.

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

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

“I was dead.” But this was new. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His silence is enough of an answer.

"How long was I gone?"

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

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

"Who knows?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

__________

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

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

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

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

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

"You garden now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y'feeling cold?" he adds quickly. 

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

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

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

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

"You will feel cold, won't you?" 

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

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

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

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

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

"Been a while since I got a haircut." 

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

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

Sadder. Tired. Mistrusting.

"Older," you settle on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tomorrow?" he delays.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

_________

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

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

__________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He said there was an explosion."

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

And Bucky was too slow to get you out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He swallows thickly when he knows the conversation ends there. 

__________

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

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

_________

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

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

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

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

"How long ago did you buy this place?" 

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

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

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

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

Bucky returns to painting the wood, face turned away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

__________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sam drops by every now 'n then."

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

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

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

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

“And?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I like spending time with you. Always." 

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

_________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks at the misshapen piece of cutlery.

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

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

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

"What do you think?" you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

___________

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

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

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

Bucky wonders if you’ll ever get better. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What made you mad?” He chuckles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have always felt like the God of the Night.

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

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

Now, you feel closer to the God of Death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You just need a shave," you hum.

"I need a new face."

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

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

"Same thing, no?"

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

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

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

_____

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

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

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

"This works fine, thanks."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'd do it again."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But instead you kiss him.

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

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

"Don't," he begs.

You search his eyes for any kind of a message.

He kisses you harder, pulling you flush against him.

__________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_______

"Sweetheart?"

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

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

He touches your shoulder lightly and you almost jump.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Anything you want," he promises.

__________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky is suddenly very awake.

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

He doesn’t have an answer.

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

_________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweetheart," he calls gently. 

You look up at him. 

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

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

A beat passes before you open your mouth to speak. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just do. Can’t help it.”

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

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

It felt like the beginning of the end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ready?" you ask softly.

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

But you're you-- patient and kind. And he thinks that he can try to start redeeming himself.

__________

Turns out he wasn't wrong. Asgard really is too grand for a fella like him.

It is opulence-- gold and towering heights that bleed the love of its citizens and a history richer than words can contain.

Thor is smart. Aside from Heimdall, who greets you with the hug a father gives a child who's been away for too long, no one knows of your appearance until you are ready.

You get a few days in the tower to yourself, to breathe in the air that grew your lungs and touch the marble you've split your head open against in the past. The help are sworn to secrecy, and no one knows who Bucky is anyway except as the man who has been specifically allotted to the same room as you upon your request.

It doesn't take long for your face to pick up. Your skin comes alive with a vibrancy he didn't think he'd see again. You sleep sounder at night, and you eat more than you've had the appetite for in the last few months.

He trails behind you and Thor initially, not wanting to eavesdrop into conversations he has no place being a part of.

But you grab his hand, lace your fingers in his and tug him along as if to say that this is his home too.

He sees what you mean when you say that you are connected to the land. Clothes on Earth have never fit you right. Silks from Asgard decorate you like you are one in the same, like it flows from you.

_________

Reunions are a tearful affair. Lots of hugs are exchanged, punches to the shoulder, and kisses to various parts of your face.

“You have been alive for months, and we are just now learning of it,” Sif holds your hands in hers. 

“It took me a while to recover.” You give her a small smile. 

“We would have come as soon as you called,” she continues. “You did not have to heal alone.”

“I wasn’t alone.”

Eyes turn over to Bucky, and he’s suddenly very aware that the clothes he’s been given are too rich for him, too grand. He feels small, like they drown him out.

Despite what he’s saying, he feels as though he has deprived you. He knows that he has, and he has no one else to blame but himself. 

“Thank you,” Sif says instead, taking him by surprise. “We will remember this.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies weakly.  

__________

It takes days to meet the closest of your friends, until they decide they had their fill. Bucky is slowly introduced to all of them. Boisterous and loud, most greet him with a wide appreciation. Others are less quick to warm, and he gives himself no room to blame them either. 

Upon insistence, he joins you for your welcome back dinner, and gets a seat right beside you. 

Your hand holds his the entire night, squeezing tighter when something makes you laugh, or when someone is particularly embarrassing.

When there is a lull in the conversation after hours, sly grins are exchanged.

"So, this is the one you raved on and on about." 

His eyebrows quirk in amusement.

"I did not rave," you huff. "I simply informed you--"

"For hours. Days even,” they drag on. “A great warrior from earth with eyes that could rival storms--"

Bucky chokes on his wine. You award your friends with several curses and glares.

"Long hair past his shoulders. Oh, and arms to die for--"

You take in the way his face has gone red, all the way up to his ears. You laugh and grip his hand tightly with an unabashed shrug.

"I am only glad that that's all you remember," you joke.

He thinks he should be buried in the garden for his sanity.

_________

Walks around the castle become increasingly common at night. You are mostly left undisturbed, and you take the opportunity to show him everything you've ached to.

Where you've learnt, where you first scraped your knee. The first arrow you shot. Where your parents met. The first and last time you cried over a friend gone astray.

He can't fathom why he ever thought he wouldn't be ready to know this. As if knowing more about you would cement the fact that he was lesser than.

“You look ethereal,” Bucky tells you one night, honest and true.

You look at him, a bit taken aback. There was nothing particularly different about you this evening. In fact, you’d chosen to stay away from festivities today to lie around the gardens with him, citing a headache.

“I should have said yes earlier,” he continues. “You belong here. It shows.”

A laugh leaves you as an exhale. “It feels different.” You run your fingers through his hair. “I don’t know if it would be the same if I brought you here years ago.”

“Different how?” Bucky closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of your touch.

“I don’t know,” you tell him. “I am not sure it is what I remember it to be.”

You don’t say anymore. Bucky doesn’t ask. 

He lays with you under a clear night sky, and your fingers deftly move the faint lights in the sky to mimic shapes of fishes and hunters. 

He notices the sky here, too, has taken the same fate as it has on earth. Not as full as it could be, always just a little less bright.

He assumed it would change when you came back. He assumed it would change when you came to Asgard.

The sinking feeling in his stomach reminds him of what he already knows is going to come.

_____________

There are nights you are dragged off by your friends for things that don't include him.

You shoot him a sorry smile and he tells you to just go with steady reassurance.

Bucky takes to exploring. He's been given robes to blend in. They always fit in a way that's too soft.

He looks at statues erected, memorials in place for those who've given up their lives for a bigger cause. He spots your name in there as well, as if they've not yet entirely sure that you're back. He spends hours at the library, reading up on things he couldn't find on Earth. Where heroes slain in battle actually go, what it's like over there. Stories of when they are brought back. None of them end well.

Thor finds him, and introduces Bucky to Asgardian mead that he swears got Steve tipsy. Bucky’s had a rough couple of years. He’s in no place to turn down a drink. 

He remembers what it's like to be 21 and drunk again and like nothing bad can ever happen.  When you choose to join in with them, Bucky finds he’s a lot braver and a lot smoother with liquor flowing through his veins. 

Stumbling through tower hallways, giggling and stealing open-mouthed kisses in the shadows like a bunch of teenagers until he has your back pressed up against the bedroom door. 

“Eager?” you breathe out when he nips at your neck, hands scouring every inch of you he can find. 

“What gave it away?” he mutters, pulling away to look you. 

Wild eyes and equally untamed hair, and there is a light in his eyes that outshines supernovae. 

“I love you,” you tell him, and it’s a startling moment of clarity in the middle of a juvenile hour. “I hope that always remains with you.”

Before he can respond, you thread your hands behind his neck and steer him towards the bed, mouth never once leaving his. 

________

Another solitary night, and it's by pure accident that he ends up retracing his steps to the first place he was introduced to in Asgard. He wonders how much of it was intentional, his conscience forcing him to a reckoning long awaiting him. 

Heimdall is there as always, standing tall with a grace that is still threatening. Bucky is not a fool-- he knows he can sense his presence.

Still, he looks only for a moment before making leave. 

"I hear it was magic that brought her back," Heimdall voices.

Bucky pauses in his tracks.

"Yes," he says, like he’s forced to respond.

"Are you aware of what it takes to bring a body back from the dead?" Heimdall asks, tone still. "Cells are broken and reattached if they do not malfunction. The brain is attacked with sensation after being dormant for months. The heart pumps degraded blood through vessels that have collapsed."

Bucky feels bile rise to his mouth at a memory that seems so far away. Enough has happened since.

Heimdall looks at him, steel cut eyes boring into his. “Our ancestors have tried this for centuries,” he says slowly. “It has always ended the same way.”

Bucky keeps silent. Wonders if the God can hear him swallow the lump in his throat– probably can.

“Tempering with fate has never fared well.”

“I’m not trying to play with fate,” Bucky finds himself moving on its own accord. “If this wasn’t supposed to happen, it wouldn’t have. I am not a God.”

Heimdall stares into his soul and Bucky feels suffocatingly exposed. “The separation between divinity and mortals is thinner than you may imagine.”

“I have no interest in crossing it.”

“Haven’t you?” Heimdall’s eyes flicker over to the direction you were last going in. “When your will supersedes reality– what else do you call it?”

“Luck.” His voice comes back stonily.

Heimdall gives him a wry smile. “No such thing.”

Bucky’s palms feel clammy, his stomach twisting into knots.

“Your grief is natural. But do not let it overpower your love,” Heimdall adds. “I am sorry you had to go through this. I'm afraid sooner or later you will have to see that you cannot disrupt the natural order of things.”

"Why?" His voice cracks and he curses himself.

Heimdall's eyes soften. "There comes a point where your love for someone becomes indistinguishable from hurting them. Your intentions are noble, but you already know where you stand."

Bucky quietly turns on his heel and leaves, but the conversation remains heavy on his mind for days to come.

_________

The first time you fall sick, really sick, like you used to be on Earth, Bucky watches from the sidelines as various people tend to you. Those with divinity at their fingertips, those with herbs and concoctions he’d never heard of, others with tools and prayers and everything. 

They try everything. It takes you a full week to recover.

Bucky sits, emotionless by your bedside, and feeds you from a spoon, food that your friends swore you grew up loving. 

Asgard was supposed to work. Being here was supposed to work. No one knows what to do, except to wait it out. As your fever quells and Bucky watches you open your eyes for the first time in a few days, everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says quietly from your bedside. “How can I help?”

The smile you give him is tired. He gives you a small one in return, and leaves a kiss on your forehead. 

It feels all too familiar. 

God of the Night and the Devil of Cursed Fates.

_________

Thor teaches him the song, the one he caught you humming for months. It sounds different to what he remembers you singing.

He watches you thumb through titles in the Asgardian library, looking for a book of wildlife to show him. It only takes a few seconds for you to hum under your breath again, but Bucky is quick to ask this time. 

“Oh.” You blink. “I may have remembered it wrong.”

He tilts his head at you, but you go back to browsing through library books.

___________

Nights in bed, he spends tracing up and down your arm. He's full from a feast, and he's watched you dance around a courtyard with spirit and joy, and for the first time in years he feels like he can breathe.

You drag him along with you, and while he may have been quick on his feet in the thirties, Bucky was significantly older. You don't seem to care. You laugh like nothing has ever worried you before, and he finds it infectious.  

"D'you s'ppose we'd have been married by now?" he asks, breaking the quiet.

"I remember turning down your offer," you say, the corners of your mouth pulling upwards. "So, who's to say?"

Bucky's face breaks into a smile, one that looks particularly incredible in the moonlight. "You said I knew what the answer was already. Looks like that leaves the ball in my court."

You look at him, a little endearingly, and as he's come to expect, a little sad.

"I think we would have," you hum. "But you wouldn't have survived wedding festivities here."

He scoffs, rolling onto his back and feels his stomach ache dully. "Barely holdin' on now as it is."

You pull closer to him, fingers dancing across his chest. "Why didn't you try to find someone else?"

He exhales, sharper than he intends. "Didn't wan'to," he mumbles.

"I'd hate to think you didn't try to find others who loved you," you tell him, brows pulled together, "You have so much of it to give. It'd be a shame."

"Didn't see the point." Bucky hopes he doesn't sound as sharp as he does in his head.

"If something were to happen tomorrow, and I am no longer here," you begin and he wants to beg you to stop talking about this, "It would break my heart if you didn't go on with life as you were meant to live it."

"This is how I'm meant to live." He sounds pathetic-- obsessed, and entirely dependent but he isn't sure you know. "This is it. This is the best it's ever gonna get for me."

You look at him, eyebrows knitted. Your thumb caresses his jaw, running across the sharp curve.

"You deserve more," you say gently. "You do. Life has been unkind, but you will always deserve more."

You’re doing it again. Preparing him. For the inevitable he knows is looming on the horizon. The one he saw in Heimdall's eyes.

Still, you notice that it is too much for him, and you break the tension with a smile.

Outside the window, the sounds of a party continue on. You would be out there too, if he hadn't noticed the slow in your movements and the dip in your energy. He instead gave his lack of stamania as a reason and asked if you would join him in the room, for which you shot him a grateful look.

"You never gave me a ring," you remind instead, voice teasing.

Bucky looks at you wearily before silently getting up from the bed. 

You sit up in confusion, watching him trail across to the wardrobe and pull out the clothes he was wearing on his first day here.

He shuffles back into bed and turns to you, holding out his hand in a request.

It takes a second but you give him yours, and he silently slides a ring onto your finger. Even in the darkness it glitters like it’s made of light.

"I've had it for ages," he tells you. "Woulda given it to you quicker if you'd just said yes the first time."

You laugh loudly, and hold his face in yours before kissing him hard to the sounds of a fading party.

__________

The effect wears off gradually. It goes the same as it does in the cabin. 

You begin to space out visits. Stay in for a day or two, which increases as time passes. Though the castle help are ever gracious and at your beck and call, you send them away in exchange for quiet nights in.

Bucky wipes your forehead with cool cloth. Feeds you nectar by hand and tells you of everything he's learnt since the time you've arrived there.

You begin to look sick again, and miserably, he does not know what to do. You've been attended to by the best of medicine that the nine realms have to offer. You've spent nights with your friends, drinking in joy and embodying love.

But you are dying. You have been since you came back, and he can no longer choose to look past it in hopes for a remedy.

He looks at you like you've given the world the light it bathes in, and wipes your perspiration with his thumb.

You smile back at him in your sleep, and he lets that slow the march towards the end.

_________

One of the good days, you lead him to the lake. The one where water remembers. You point out faces. He discerns them to be some of your friends a couple of hundred years ago.

He follows as you walk along the banks, letting you show him yourself through the years. Some streaked with tears, others with joy so infectious it has his stomach doing flips.

"That is the last time I came here," you point at the last one. "Two months before it happened."

He remembers the trip. He thought he remembered how you were back then, that he'd etched into the crevices of your mind.

When he looks down, he sees a different person. Your face is light. The weight of circumstance does not weigh you down.

You were right when you said you did not recognise the person you were.

That night in bed, he holds onto you tighter than he has, no longer afraid of causing more damage. He has already done the worst, and you've taken it without a word.

“Bucky,” you call.

He doesn’t trust his voice to answer, so he just makes a noise.

Your eyes meet his intently and he knows. You do not have to say a single word to him. 

You’ve made a decision. It was your will, as Wanda had told him all those months ago.

“I'm sorry,” his voice cracks. “I'm so sorry. It was so selfish.”

“It's okay,” you press a palm against his cheek and shudders from the cold.

“I love you.” His eyes burn, but he forces himself to take more of you in. “I love you so much, I'm sorry. I just wanted a second chance.”

“I know.” You smile but your voice is sad. “I know. I understand.”

“I don't know how you aren’t angry at me." I don’t know why you stayed.

You look him in his eye, giving him no space to run. "I would have done the same. If I could, I would have done the very same thing."

He chooses to believe that, despite what Heimdall has told him. If he tries, he can find heat in the frigid veins.

"But we are simply delaying the inevitable, my love." You press a kiss to his forehead. "I no longer belong here. I am not who I was. I doubt I will ever be."

He loves every version of you. He already loved, and he will always learn to love whoever you change to be.

"I know it is hard, but I have to go," you tell him softly.

His eyes burn and his head stings.

"I grew up with friends I loved, and a family that loved me. My life was good," you tell him. "I didn't realise how much I wanted to give that forward until you happened. I will always love you for that."

Bucky kisses you till you can't breathe and his tears mix with yours.

Till the morning breaks and you have to tell everyone of your decision, he tells you over and over again a tale you already know. Everything he's ever felt. Everything that’s happened in the last few months– his revolving door of therapists and all the movies he’s watched and all the bakery foods he thought you'd like.

You listen, and you tell him stories he memorises to heart. You are still dying. 

But this time he is there, and in that lies his true second chance. 

________

A month later, and not a day before that.

You pass away quietly, surrounded by people instead of rubble. He holds your hand throughout, and for long after even once your chest stops rising.

The Asgardians let him stay for as long as he wants, still and quiet. No one says a word as he presses a kiss to the crown, leaning his forehead against yours for as long as the universe permits.

The funeral goes by in a haze. Everyone gathers, even after such short notice. No matter how much time he had to prepare, the air was thick, and he swallows down his discomfort.

A gentle breeze whispers through the columns of the great hall, carrying with it the soft, mournful melodies of Asgardian lyres and flutes.

In the center of the pyre, you lay, ethereal even in repose. Around you, night-blooming flowers bloom alongside, as if the sky itself was paying its respects.

Thor recites the ancient eulogies. With reverent hands, they guide the vessel into the river that flows through Asgard.

As the vessel drifts away, a hush falls over the assembly. Just before reaching the edge of the waterfall, arrows shoot fire onto the wood, letting the flames consume the casket. Bucky holds back a cry. 

Thor hits the staff, and the casket continues onward instead of falling off the edge. Within a flash Bucky sees an orb rise above you and shoot off towards the sky.

Thousands of lights are let loose into the sky. He closes his eyes, says a few words no one will know except you, and lets go of the soul orb given to him.

And that was it.

________

Bucky looks at the last of his belongings, tied tightly together. 

There were a few things he was allowed to take with him, things that belonged to you while you lived here. He's grateful more than anything, that he's not relegated to photos.

He was made to stay a few more days in Asgard while everything was completed. Though the people were lovely, and he's more than glad he came, he knows that this was where this ended.

He exhales, looking back at the place where he spent the better part of three months.

"You will be alright?" Thor asks, walking with him to the courtyard.

He shrugs. It was still fresh, but the utter despair he had felt the last time had been replaced with a quietness.

"You?" he asks in return.

Thor smiles, and claps his back and Bucky is forced to take a step forward.

"It will be an honour to remember her," he says, and for a moment, Bucky feels a sense of peace at his words. "You are always welcome here."

A small laugh leaves Bucky in the form of an exhale. "Don't be a stranger, Thor."

The God summons the Bifrost and the force is enough to make Bucky hold his hands up to his face.

"I'll see you around. Thanks for everything." His lips pull together in a tight smile.

Thor takes a second, but then says, “You will be alright, James.”

It’s reassuring, he thinks. Bucky nods and turns, taking a step towards the bridge.

"Wait," Thor calls loudly, "I almost forgot."

He turns to him in confusion, and a list of possibilities running through his head.

"She told me to give you this," he says, "She used to carry them around for us."

From around his wrist, he pulls off a hair tie and holds it out to him.

Bucky takes it, a little stunned.

________

Two months pass.

Bucky stands on the threshold of a door that is foreign to him.

His head falls, but his arms raise either way. Two swift knocks and he takes a step back. He looks around nervously, hands stuffing into his pocket. His car lays at the end of the long driveway, ready to leave at any given moment.

For a second, he thinks about making a run for it. But the door swings open and Bucky's eyes quickly dart up.

"Hey," he says, voice coarse. "You got space for one more?"

Sam looks at him in initial surprise, but it fades to softness when he notices the shape the man is in.

“C’mon, Buck,” Sam says softly. “We’ve got you.”

Bucky lets out a staggered breath, and leans over to pick up his backpack that Sam's already beaten him to.

He takes one good look at the sky. Dark, clear and finally returned to the way it had been for centuries.

But he swears that a single star in the corner of his eye shines a little brighter than the rest.

[morphids]

first off- happy holidays!! idk if this is something you’d be interested in but how about a pining assistant troupe with hange? i think it would be fun for reader to have a reiner-ymir relationship with moblit, constantly fighting for hange’s attention and stuff <3

give me all your attention, hange zoë

hi lovely, happy holidays!! this was so much fun to write thank you for requesting!! <3 hope you enjoyyy

summary: pining assistant!r x nb!hange

warnings: kinda sfw—suggestive themes, heavy makeout and a lil dirty talk, tension, lowk dominant hange, nothing explicit. unreliable narration sometimes (r is projecting on moblit a lot) moblit slander—sorry guys i love him really, r def has a hidden praise kink lmao, gendered nicknames towards reader, hange teases a lot, downbad behaviour.

wc: 3.2k

—

Life as Hange's assistant was stressful, to say the least. You think one of these days you'll have a cardiac arrest, the way they're so unbothered about jumping right into danger. Sure, there were worse jobs to be hired into, but it definitely wasn't easy. Hange made sure of that.

But more than that, you couldn't stand Moblit. He was a nice guy, and all, but you two clash a lot. Especially when Hange was in the picture. You'd think Hange had needed him all their life, the way he jumps on the chance to do anything for them. Always doting, chasing them around like a good little labrador. It was sickening, to be honest.

You glanced up from your clipboard, eyeing the way that Moblit brought Hange some dinner, as they hadn't eaten theirs yet. Would've been a nice, caring gesture— except that you had already made extra dinner earlier and boxed some away especially for Hange to eat. Out of all the meals you cooked, that one had been Hange's ultimate favourite. He would've known if he'd bothered to ask, instead of taking it upon himself. You hated how eager to impress Hange he was. Hated Hange's reaction even more, like he was God's gift to their stomach. Ugh.

Both of you were Hange's assistants, having been hired around the same time. So a few years had passed of this little rivalry with each other. You wondered what his motivations were. Why he was as desperate to please as he was.

I mean, your relationship with Hange was so different to theirs. Could he not see that? It's not like all the responsibilities fell on him. If it was up to you, he'd be stuck doing all the paperwork whilst you had the more... hands on jobs that needed doing.

"Dear? Could you come here for a sec?" Hange's voice broke you from your entranced thoughts. You made your way over to the two, tucking your clipboard underneath your arm. Hange seemed to always call you names like that, during the first few weeks of working you worried that they actually just forgot your real name and wanted to cover it up with an easy-to-remember pet name. Then months later, you realised they just seemed to have a proclivity for referring to you in that way.

It flustered you sometimes, made you wonder if that was the reason Moblit didn't seem to take you seriously and seemed to have it out for stealing jobs away from you. Always puffing his chest like he can do everything under the sun. It just seemed to be a quirk of Hange's, though, they never seemed to mean anything by it, always remaining professional. They must just really like nicknames?

"Yes, Hange?" You'd been conditioned to not use their title over the years, Hange seemed to hate that—weeks of correction every time 'Commander,' came out of your mouth.

"I need you to re-check these test results for me—something isn't right, I need fresh eyes."

"Oh, I can do that for you Hange," Moblit spoke, eyes eager as he awaited a new task, even his spine straightened out a little more.

"That won't be needed, Moblit, I'm perfectly capable." You narrowed your eyes at him, voice terse, there he goes again, always trying to take jobs away from you, what an asshole. Does he think women aren't able or something? 

Clearly, your glare hadn't been as internal as you intended, as Hange side-eyed the two of you before shoving their slacking glasses tighter up the nose bridge, then clapping their hands together.

"Anyway, I'd need it by tonight, so bring your findings down to my office when you're done, dear." They smiled down at you, warm and gentle.

"Sure, Hange." You nodded as they walked away, leaving you and Moblit stood awkwardly side by side. Moblit looked you up and down, with a vague face.

"Need something?" You bit out, increasingly getting more annoyed. It had been like this since you both started, but it was becoming worse. Your patience was wearing thinner and thinner as he was getting more absurd with his actions. You often wondered if Hange noticed the growing animosity between their two assistants, and actively chose to not get involved, or if they hadn't even noticed at all.

Moblit cleared his throat, looking down at his shoes now.

"Nope,"

"Great, I'll get started on the analyses."

Moblit nodded curtly, moving aside so you could make your way to the desk to do your work.

—

A few hours had passed, your neck was crooked and sore from having been craned towards paper for the afternoon. It took ages to realise what the problem in the test results had been, and then you finally spotted it.

Oh, you were so gonna kill him.

Etched in Moblit's handwriting, was the incorrect recording of two variables. Making sure your tired eyes weren't being deceitful, you flicked between the two sheets again, the one Hange had drafted for the hypothesis plan with the correct variables, and Moblit's, which was supposed to have it all recorded, properly.

He must've misread the numbers, transcribing the data wrong and fucking up the whole experiment.

Idiot, you thought, sighing. You leaned back into your chair, relieved to have found the error in the results, at least it could be fixed now. Sitting up from your seat, you compiled the work together into a pile and took yourself to relay it back to Hange.

Knocking on the door, Hange's voice rang from the other side of the wall, before cracking the door open. Once seeing it was you, moving to the side to let you in, eyes glimmering as you entered.

"Come in, dear, we were just chatting."

Moblit was in there, too. How great. Well, looks like you'd have to do this with him there.

"I found the error," You muttered, placing the sheets down on Hange's desk.

"Ooh! I knew I could count on you - what was it?" Hange excitedly beamed, sipping on some coffee that you just knew Moblit had brought. He's never brought you any, always just the two cups.

"Well, ask Moblit," you chuckled, maybe it was a good thing he was here, so you could see the look on his face, "He marked the variables wrong, it confused the outcome of the experiment."

Meanwhile, Moblit was mortified.

"Wha—", his mouth slightly hung open as he frantically grabbed the sheets to check for himself. Sighing as he saw that you were, in fact, correct. There it was, his mistake written right in front of his face, mocking him.

"I'm sure it happens all the time," You muttered, just not by you, or Hange.

"I'm sorry, Hange! It won't happen, again!" He bent his neck down with shame, Hange only laughed, shaking their head.

"Don't worry, Moby! It can happen to anyone— at least we know, now!"

As much as you hated to admit it, you couldn't have expected Hange to berate him, not for an honest mistake. Yet, a callous part of you wished they had. Chastised him for his error ruining the experiment, wasting hours on a test that was never going to be executed correctly. Scold him for always acting like he was above you, only to fuck up now. But you knew they were too nice for that, it's what you respected about Hange.

"We'll run it properly tomorrow, right, dear?" Hange beamed, brown eyes shining at you through their specs as you found your anger simmering.

"Of course, Hange," They nodded, pleased.

It wasn't long until Moblit excused himself, leaving Hange's office whilst the remnants of shame fuelled his steps. You were about to follow suit, facing towards the door until Hange spoke, stopping your steps.

"Dear? I wanna speak to you,"

Your stomach sank, fuck. What if you were going to get scolded? As far as you were aware, you hadn't done anything wrong. Sure, they didn't scold Moblit, but that had been an easy mistake. What if something you did was so reprehensible that they would? Maybe Hange had grown tired of the way you were towards Moblit— but just because you were vocal about your irritation, doesn't make Moblit anymore innocent. He's the one that started this, always trying to one-up your achievements and helpful nature.

Turning yourself towards them, you failed to meet eyes. Feeling your nerves increase as you feared the worst, plucking at the skin around your nail beds.

"Don't look so scared! I just wanted to say thank you,"

Looking up at them, you faltered, Hange stood right in-front of you.

"What for?"

"Finding the error! It was driving me insane, honestly, I can't believe I missed it," Hange joked, rubbing their forehead, "Must need a nap,"

"Oh...of course, y-you asked me to,"

"I did," Hange came closer, "That doesn't mean you'd find it, though— I must've looked at that report a hundred times and didn't catch it."

"So well done!" They beamed, "You always do what I ask of you, dear—so well, too."

Hange's arm raised to bring a hand down to your arm, squeezing it affectionately.

Your breath caught in your throat, Hange's praise and the contact seemed to have made your brain go a little silly. A lot, silly, in fact. You could just feel your cheeks warm, the implications of their words used in a different context short-circuited your head.

"T-Thank you, Hange, I'm glad I could help," An attempt at retaining strong, retaining dignity and professionalism. You hoped it worked.

"You always help, dear, just try not to give Moblit such a hard time about it, okay?"

Well, that ruined that. Any sense of pride you had just gotten immediately crushed. Hange must've caught the way your face hardened, the way you began nibbling the inner skin of your lip with your teeth, holding back resentful words at your lips puckered out.

"Look, you don't have to be best friends— I know he isn't innocent, either, okay? But I'd rather have my two favourite assistants get along!"

You stared at them, with an 'are you kidding' expression coated on your features. Heck, you had tried getting along with him. He was the one who made it into a competition of who could please Hange the hardest. Constantly prying their attention away from your impressive feats.

Yeah, okay, fine, time to cut the bullshit— you had realised that you had perhaps, a little, teeny crush on Hange a while back. Heart fluttering too much at their praise, their soft way of speaking to you, the way they were so affectionate or had no qualms about rubbing your arm if you'd done a good job, making sure you knew just how much you had been of help.

You craved it. You craved more of their attention like an addict and craved to impress them, to hear those sweet praises as they smiled at you with those warm eyes and enticing smile. Like you were so good, so smart, useful. Had been the best damned assistant that could preemptively predict what Hange would need.

Especially, in the scientific sense; working hard late at night to write the best damn reports they had ever read. Making sure to help think of clever alternatives for an experiment gone wrong. You were damn good at your job. That's why it pissed you off when Moblit decided to keep shitting on your parade, purposefully outshining you so that he looked like the knight in shining armour.

It wasn't like Hange picked favourites, in fact, they seemed a little oblivious to his ways. Thanking him just as they thanked you, with just perhaps a little less skin-ship. And a little less petnames, the things that made your heart race and stomach flip.

At least you knew your reasonings for this—what were his?

But, Moblit had definitely noticed, the way Hange's professionalism seems to falter a little bit when you were around. Definitely noticed when you both stayed in each other's presence more than was deemed necessary, the way Hange's eyes brightened as they spoke to you.

He thought he could never compete with that, not in the professional sense anyway. He'd made it his mission to try and outshine you however he could so that he wouldn't get left behind in tasks, all due to his Commander's potential sweetened feelings towards you. He'd never have any work if Hange just gave all the good work to you! Truthfully, though, by the time he noticed Hange's...affections for you hadn't impacted the way any of you worked, hadn't picked favourites - it was too late to stop the competitiveness. Too late for the animosity between the two assistants to halt.

"Hange, we would get along if he wasn't hellbent on ruining my career!"

Hange cackled, covering their mouth at the dramatics,

"How does he ruin your career, my dear?"

Ignoring the new addition to the nickname, you continued, having held it in for so long it all just came pouring out.

"He steals all the good jobs, acts better than me even though he messes up experiments, feeds you food even though I made you the dinner you like,"

Yup, you were definitely going off-track, but it was too late to stop the rambling, the box had been opened.

"He follows you around like a puppy, brings both of you coffee—always failing to bring me one! Doting on you like—" You cut yourself off, once you caught the look on Hange's face.

Amused and mirthful, front teeth pulling back a bit on the side of their lip as they listened to your rant. Arms crossed as they looked down at you, eager brown eyes bright and glimmering, wanting you to keep going.

"Why does that bother you so much, huh?"

"It's just annoying—he acts like your boyfriend." You huffed, crossing your arms across your chest, as you looked to the side.

"Well, he's not, we all know that, dear."

"Does he know that?"

Hange gaped at you, a playful expression glazing over their eyes, a gentle smirk tugging on their lips.

"Don't worry, pretty, you have all of my attention."

Meeting their eyes, your stomach flipped, a tension in your abdomen at their words. Pretty? That's a new one. You hated the way it sat in your stomach, making your mind sink to dark, dark places. The words in your throat were caught, trapped as you couldn't find in yourself to respond eloquently.

"Yeah right." You knew you were being unreasonably bratty, especially to your superior, but you couldn't care at this point. Deciding to just spew it out.

"Why don't I show you, then, hm?"

Hange unfolded their arms, grabbing your elbows and pulling you close to them.

"What—"

"ssh—told you, 'm gonna show you,"

Hange moved your arms to rest around their shoulders, their own coming down to wrap around your waist.

"What does that mea—"

"It means," Hange was losing patience, "Let me show you how no one else is stealing my attention away, pretty girl."

Hange was inches away, eyes down to your lips, as one hand reached up to thumb the skin on your jaw. Your plump lips split, shallow breaths escaping as your pretty, doe eyes stared up at them, dilating to reveal a darker pool of black in your pupils at Hange's closeness. Mind reeling at how close Hange's fingers were to your throat.

"They never did, dear, my attention was always yours."

Their lips almost touching yours, your brows tilting up slightly as their words. Almost hesitant, what if this was a trap? An insanely well-thought, long planned trap from Moblit, get you to admit your feelings and then humiliate you.

"You were always just so good, doing everything I asked you," The paused, the hand at your waist tightening its grip on your sides, "'N you do it all so well, pretty girl."

"Y'can't possibly think I was never impressed with you, hm?"

Hange's mouth reached your ear, lip grazing your earlobe as shivers went down your back, "All you needed to do was walk into the room n'Im impressed, dear."

"So I’m asking you, will you let me show you?"

You nodded, biting back a low whimper as Hange's lips moved away from your ear to the front of you, hand at your waist still strong, and the other tugging at your jaw, grabbing you a little bit harder, dragging your skin as they pulled your face closer, your eyes fluttering as they moved you.

"Yeah?" They smiled, a gentle, soft smile. Voice teasing, almost mocking, like they knew exactly what they were doing to you—it's not like you were hiding it well, "You'll let me, pretty girl? Need t'hear you say it,"

All doubts left your mind, that craving returning with full force as your mind turned to mush, incoherent thoughts, all you could make out was that craving. That desire that had been eating up at you over the years, Hange’s sweet praise leaving you feeling floaty.

"Y-yes, Hange,"

With the confirmation, Hange pressed their lips to yours, skin finally touching skin. The warmth of their mouth encompassing your own, as you allowed yourself to melt into their kiss. Surrounded with Hange, your chests pressing together as you hands grabbed at the back of their neck. Impossibly close, yet you still craved to be closer.

The sound of lips smashing against each other filled the room, the mutual desire would be heard clearly to anyone who walked in. Heavy breathing through noses as you sighed into each other.

Hange separated your lips to murmur against you, in between shorter pecks, “Been waiting to be able to kiss you,” They breathed out, voice rasped and low, “Waiting this whole time,”

“Hang—“ Your whimpers were cut short, swallowed as Hange connected your lips again, the kiss starved and ardent. Hange’s grip on your jaw was unbelievably tight, helpful considering it was getting harder to hold your head up, truly weakened.

Hange moved your bodies around, the back of your thighs meeting the line of wooden desk, as they leaned you up against it. The hand from your waist reaching down to lift your thigh up on the wooden slab, letting you lean your weight back on it as they placed themselves comfortably in between your open legs. Your thighs tightened around them to keep them close, shivering at the contact of them pressing up against you. Hange’s hands grabbed at your thighs, feeling as much skin as the clothes on your legs would allow, fingers kneading against the fabric, wishing they could feel you without the layers.

“Taste so sweet, dear,” Hange groaned against your lips, “Makin’ me wanna do bad things,” Hange’s lips were plump and flushed, solid evidence of the feverish kissing as you imagined your own weren’t any better off.

“Makin’ me wanna take you right here,” Hange’s words incited you, propelled you deeper into impropriety as you responded, words breathy and full of want.

“What’s stopping you then?”

—

…welp 🫣

[yarsia-writesxx]

Saints and Sinners

Sammie ‘Preacher boy’ Moore x Serena Saint

Summary: Serena and Sammie were practically inseparable when they were little. He's play his instrument in church while Serena sang in the choir. But one day she had to move away without warning. Now she's back....What happens when she is recruited by stack to sing at their jukebox joint?

Warnings: tension

Part 2

The afternoon sun hangs heavy in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty path as Serena walks toward the little house at the edge of town. The porch creaks beneath her sandals, the old boards giving under her careful steps. Before she can knock, her father's voice calls out from inside.

"That you, baby girl?"

"It's me, Daddy," she says, pushing open the screen door.

That day her momma left with her, Serena thought she'd never see her father again. The shouting, the slammed door, the packed suitcase—it all felt so final. But her father made an effort. Showed up every chance he could, no matter how far it was or how late the hour. Her mother, as angry as she was, granted him that—said she didn't have to see his face all the time,so it's alright . And he used that small opening like it was gold.

Inside, her father sits in his worn armchair, a soft blanket over his knees and a well-thumbed book resting on his lap. The room smells like tobacco and old pine. He looks up with a tired smile. "Don't you look more like your mama every time I see you," he says, motioning her over. Serena bends to kiss his cheek and settles on the footstool beside him. "How you feelin' today?"

"Oh, I'm still breathin', so I suppose I can't complain," he chuckles. "Reverend came by, brought the paper and talked my ear off about the Good Lord."

"That does sound like him," she says, laughing. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a wrapped bundle. "I brought you some of Miss Lydia's peach pie. Said it might sweeten your mood."

"That woman's pie could raise the dead," he grins, already reaching for it. "How ya been daddy?" Serena questions. “Oh, same ol', same ol'. Glad you came by," he says, eyeing her with curiosity. "But what you really come for?"

Serena smiles, caught in the act. "I came to see you, of course... but I ran into Stack and Sammie on the way." Serena says sitting across from her father. "Ah, the Moore boys," he says, chuckling as he settles back. "How's that Stack? Last I heard, he and his brother was in Chicago or somethin'."

"He's fine, Papa. Doing real good." She hesitates for a second, messing with her dress. "Actually... Stack and Sammie invited me to see their new place. The twins bought a juke joint."

"A juke joint, huh?" he says, raising his eyebrows as he nods slowly. "Yeah," Serena replies. "They asked me to sing for them, and I think I'm gonna go. I just need to stop by Pearline's first."

He smiles, the pride evident in his eyes. "You always had a beautiful voice. I'm sure you'll do just fine. Just promise me you'll be back at a reasonable time—you know how I worry."

Serena beams, excitement lighting up her face. "Great, thanks, Papa!" she says, getting up, kissing his cheek before hurrying to the door.

....

Serena makes her way to Pearline's house, her heart tapping out a rhythm faster than her steps. The porch is warm beneath her feet, and as always, she lets herself in.

Inside, Pearline is curled up on the edge of her bed, painting her toenails and humming along to the radio. The scent of coconut oil and fresh linen floats through the room. Pearline glances up. "Hey, you. Back from your daddy's?"

"Yeah," Serena says, closing the door behind her. “How is he?” Pearline questions. "He's good. Said the Reverend talked him to sleep." Serena as words making pearline chuckle, then narrows her eyes, catching something in Serena's expression. "Okay... what is it? You got that 'I done did something' look."

"It's nothing like that it's just preacher boy invited me to sing as this new juke joint his cousin opened up" Serena says making Pearline blink in confusion . "Preacher who?" She questions. "Preacher boy. Sammie," Serena says with a grin. "Oh right the guy you introduced me to today" Pearline says making her nod. ""I wanna do it," Serena says, her voice softer now. "I really do. But I ain't got nothin' that says 'I belong up there.' Most of what I got says 'I belong behind a pie table at a bake sale.'"

Pearline marches over to her closet with a mission in her step. "Lucky for you, I been waiting for an excuse to let this dress out again."

She pulls out a deep red swing dress, smooth as satin and catching the light just right.

...

Sammie looks around the room, searching for a certain someone."Everything good?" Slim asks, coming behind Sammie. Sammie startles, then gives a quick, jerky nod, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. "Yeah... yeah, just waitin' on someone."

Slim raises an eyebrow, smirking. "Someone, huh?"

Before Sammie can reply, the door swings open. Serena steps inside, her eyes sweeping over the room with quiet wonder. "Wow... it's beautiful," she murmurs to herself, unaware that Sammie has already spotted her.

A slow grin creeps across Sammie's face as he watches her. Undressing her with his eyes, he shifts his weight, brushing his jacket back just enough to look smooth without trying too hard. Serena finally notices him and strolls over, tilting her head.

"Ya mama ever tell you it's rude to stare?" she teases, one brow arched. Serena was wearing a red dress with a layered, design. The top layer appears to be made of a sleek, satin, fabric. Underneath, there's a sheer, lace 3 bodice with embellishments that seem to be small stones or sequins. Sammie looks at her up and down and grins, eyes never leaving hers. "She did. But she also said if you see something beautiful, you'd be a fool to look away."

Serena arches a brow, amused. "That right?"

"Of course" Sammie says making Serena smile. "So, you here to dance," Serena challenges, stepping a little closer, eyes locked on his, "or just stand there makin' a habit of starin' at me?"

Sammie's smirk deepens, head tilting ever so slightly. "Depends," he says smoothly. "You want me to dance, or keep admirin' the view?"

Serena bites back a smile, clearly amused. "You talk a lot of game."

"I play just as good," Sammie fires back without missing a beat. That makes Serena laugh—soft, surprised, a little impressed. She reaches out and slips her hand into his. "Alright then, smooth talker. Let's see if your moves match your mouth."

Sammie lets her lead him onto the dance floor, his grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. The moment they reach the crowd, he spins her with practiced ease, then pulls her back against him, his hands settling low on her hips. Her back molds to his chest like they were meant to fit. They move in rhythm, slow and deliberate, each sway laced with unspoken promises. Sammie’s breath catches as he watches her hips roll against his, sending a slow burn through his veins. She has no idea what she’s doing to him—or maybe she does. His fingers tighten slightly on her waist as he leans in, his lips brushing her neck, soft and slow. A kiss here. Another there. Her skin is warm, her scent dizzying. He hears her breath hitch just slightly, and it almost undoes him.

This woman… she’s dangerous. And Sammie’s never wanted danger more. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans back into him, her head tilting just enough to give him more access to her neck. It’s permission—and a dare.

Sammie’s lips ghost over her skin again, slower this time, letting the moment stretch like a wire pulled tight. One spark and it’ll snap. Her hand slides back, fingertips grazing the side of his thigh before resting there, anchoring herself—or maybe him. His jaw clenches. Every part of him is screaming to close the distance, to press in closer, deeper, more. He lowers his mouth to her ear, his voice barely a whisper. “You keep moving like that,” he murmurs, “and I’m not gonna make it through this song.”

She turns her head slightly, just enough for her lips to brush his jawline. “Maybe that’s the point,” she replies, voice low, teasing—but her eyes say otherwise. There’s fire in them. A challenge.

Tags: @cup1dedd @motheroffae @emberindigocymbee

Let me know if you want to be tagged

[effetsecndaires]

࿐ 𝙘𝙖𝙢! — 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙚; 𝙜𝙮𝙪𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙤 𝙨. ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

cw: modern setting, human gyutaro, camgirl reader, sex work, mention of sex, masturbation, hygiene neglect, misogyny, toxic masculinity, inaccurate description of onlyfans bc I have no idea how it works lmao | wc; 2,4k

an: im so sorry this chapter took so long to come out. I needed a break from this fic because I honestly have no idea where it's going and it’s started to feel like I’m just writing a whole bunch of nothing. I have never been good at writing multiple parts fics and idk why I thought this time would be different LMAO. I’m aiming to wrap it up in 2 or 3 more chapters, but I can’t promise anything :( Read on AO3

CHAPTER 1 | CHAPTER 2

Scan. Total. Change. Repeat.

Every beep of the scanner feels like a tiny jab at Gyutaro’s sanity. Groceries slide across the counter in a boring parade of the usual—cereal boxes, milk cartons, bags of apples.

His eyes glaze over as he watches the belt crawl forward, the monotony broken only by the occasional odd item: a rubber chicken, some miniature plastic hands or a single box of condoms.

But even these quirks barely stir his interest anymore.

It’s hard to keep up when the minutes drag like hours, when his back aches from standing too long, when his feet beg for a break but the clock refuses to cooperate. The endless line of customers blends into a blur of faces, each one as disengaged as he feels. A forced tight smile, a quick "Have a nice day," and then it’s back to the loop.

Scan. Total. Change. Repeat.

Even his shifts at the bar don't give him so much headache. It’s busy, it’s loud, he often has to break up fights, but it’s never dull. There’s always something new happening, and it’s a lot more exciting than the same old groceries sliding across the counter every day.

Right now, though? What he really wants is a moment of peace.

Normally, he’d be counting down the last twenty minutes until clocking out, but not tonight. He's asked to stay longer— another hour, maybe two. As much as his body screams for rest, rent won’t pay itself and the thought of an empty fridge waiting for him at home is enough to keep him going.

So he pushes through, works his ass off until 10pm and finally clocks out when the sun starts going down. He smokes one last cigarette outside the store, flicks the butt onto the ground then stomps on it, extinguishing the embers under his shoe before he heads toward his bike.

The ride home is quiet, just the hum of the engine as he weaves through the nearly empty roads. It’s a little over a 30-minute drive, but it feels longer when he’s this drained. The cold air helps keep him alert, but by the time he pulls into the lot outside his apartment, all he can think about is crashing into bed.

-

Inside, the place is quiet. Too quiet.

Ume’s not here. He barely registers the note she left on the counter—something about another girl’s night out, don’t wait up. He tosses it aside and heads straight for the fridge, already expecting the worst.

And sure enough, it’s almost empty. A half-empty carton of milk, a few eggs, some questionable leftovers he doesn’t trust enough to reheat. Not much else.

For that reason, he’s thankful for Ume's friends. They’re the type of people who insist on paying for everyone’s dinner without a second thought, perks of having rich friends. It’s a small comfort, knowing she’s cared for in ways he can’t always manage. At least she’s eating better than he is.

With a sigh, Gyutaro grabs a pack of ham from the deli drawer and pulls some (thankfully not moldy) bread from the cabinet. It’s not much, but it’ll do. He throws together a simple sandwich, not even bothering to toast the bread, and eats it standing by the counter. No plate, no effort. Just something to fill the emptiness in his stomach.

He checks his phone then— just a few system notifications staring back at him as usual. A reminder from the weather app about incoming rain, an alert from some forgotten fitness tracker urging him to move, and a low storage warning. Nothing new. Twitter and Instagram are both dry as hell, if not for Tengen’s neverending story that keeps him somewhat entertained for maybe thirty seconds, just long enough to remind him that his life seriously fucking sucks compared to other people’s.

Gyutaro sets the phone face-down on the counter with a dull thunk and rakes a hand through his hair, exhaling a heavy sigh. It’s probably the hundredth one today. The realization almost makes him snort.

He figures he doesn't really have a reason to stay up any longer. Might as well brush his teeth, maybe rinse his face, try to stop the creeping headache from taking over completely and get some well deserved sleep.

He makes a beeline for his room, plugs in his phone with barely a glance before pushing open the bathroom door — only to freeze at the sight waiting for him.

Makeup brushes scattered across the sink. A curling iron still plugged in, its cord snaking dangerously close to a puddle of water. Towels—two of them—crumpled in a soggy heap by the bathtub.

“Fucking hell, Ume.” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How hard is it to clean up after yourself?” he grumbles.

He steps over the chaos, carefully avoiding the puddles, and starts picking up the mess. It’s not his responsibility to pick up after his sister, but he knows that if he leaves it, it’ll be there for at least a couple days.

Once the counter's cleared and the clutter shoved back into place, Gyutaro straightens up slowly. His gaze catches on the mirror and he hesitates, his expression a little more critical than usual. He frowns, grabbing his messy, greasy hair with a slight look of disgust.

He opens the faucet and lets the water run until it's warm, then bends awkwardly over the sink, letting the water soak through his hair. He doesn't use proper shampoo, just a bit of hand soap and scrubs roughly at his scalp, trying to rinse away the worst of it.

It’s a poor substitute for a real shower, he’s well aware of it, but he doesn’t have the energy for anything else. Without Ume around to nag him, to wrinkle her nose dramatically and shove clean clothes at him, it can wait until morning.

So yeah. That'll have to do.

He cleans his hair roughly, brushes his teeth, strips out of his shirt, kicks off his jeans, and leaves them in a heap on the floor. Then he flicks off the bathroom light and trudges to bed, the sheets cool against his skin as he slides under them.

He reaches for his phone again without thinking, the screen lighting up his face in pale blue.

His thumb moves before his brain fully catches up. OnlyFans.

He wastes no time, immediately pulling up your account and sure enough, the brand new ‘erotic audios’ are right here— shoved in his face.

Surprisingly, he doesn't do anything with them at first. Doesn't press play. Doesn't touch himself. He just scrolls through your more modest free content (if lace panties and sheer bras count as modest), mindlessly zooming in on your tits and reading through the comments like it's the local newspaper. There’s a whole thread under one of your mirror selfies debating whether your tits are natural like it’s a scholarly fucking discussion.

Then, Gyutaro pauses, thumb hovering above the screen as a different thought creeps in.

Have you spent his money yet?

He doesn’t know why it matters. It’s not like he can get it back, and getting pissed over you spending the money he handed over would be pathetic. Stupid, even.

It's no longer his money. But the bitter feeling clings to him anyway, wedged somewhere in the back of his mind, like this whole ordeal is somehow your fault.

You're a relatively new content creator after all. He figures the money probably hit your account and vanished just as fast. Rent, maybe. Groceries. Some twisted part of him hopes you spent it on something necessary instead of treating yourself.

The idea of you walking into some store with that cash in your pocket, picking out new lingerie for your streams, or makeup, or even something stupid like fancy clothes—it makes him boil. Gets under his skin badly.

So much that his frustration nearly makes him do the responsible thing. His thumb hovers near the lock button for a fleeting moment, ready to toss the phone aside and pretend he might actually sleep.

It's totally short-lived though, as he almost instantly finds himself sinking further into the mattress, gaze sharpening as he reaches for his earbuds and slips them in easily. Then he starts scrolling again; more deliberately this time, until he finds them.

Four audios, lined up in a neat little row.

“Family gathering."

"Late-Night Confessions"

"Your Little Secret”

"After Hours"

Like you said, the first one’s free. But it's not like it matters to him. He’s already subscribed, already paying for full access like a fucking regular.

Part of him tells him to forget it. He’s tired—bone-deep, the kind that sinks into his limbs and makes even breathing feel like an effort. He doubts he'll even be able to fully get it up tonight. He’s not sure he even wants to touch himself.

But curiosity wins out in the end.

He swallows down the shame and presses play on the first audio. He adjusts his earbuds, the sound of door opening then closing setting the scene.

“Shh, we have to be quiet…”

Your soft giggles fill his ears. Then, kissing sounds.

“What? I can be quiet. If anyone's going to draw attention to us and get us caught, it's you. Don't act like it hasn't happened before.”

There’s another soft, teasing giggle. “I can’t believe you pulled me in here.” You pause, and then, a sound—more kissing, this time hurried, frantic. “Mmm… everyone’s right outside.”

Gyutaro listens carefully. The audio starts mild, with mostly kissing sounds and teasing words. That alone is enough to contradict his earlier thoughts and make his cock harden. He swears under his breath and slips his hand into his boxers, shutting his eyes as he listens.

“We’re gonna get in so much trouble… what if my dad hears?” You sound giddy, almost like you’re smiling against his lips. He begins to stroke his cock slowly, imagining the way you’d look — flushed, your eyes lit up with that mischievous spark.

Another kiss, deeper this time, followed by a muffled moan. “They’re all gonna wonder where we went… but you couldn’t wait, could you?” The sound of your breathing fills the silence, hot and heavy. Then, the distinctive sound of a buckle being undone. Gyutaro's hand continues to work his shaft, his palm gliding over the birthmarks nice and steady, coaxing it to full hardness as he listens intently.

“You’re so bad… sneaking me away like this.” Another wet kiss. “I love it, though. The way you can’t keep your hands off me.” There’s a rustle, like clothes shifting, bodies pressed closer. “Mhh, fuck, You're so big,”.

Then, you let out a small yelp. There's a bit of shuffling, followed by soft laughter. “What are you doing?” The kissing sounds continue as you speak, and Gyutaro has a pretty good idea of what's going to happen next. “You really don't have to, baby.”

A quiet moan slips through the audio, making his cock twitch.

He hears everything—every whimper, every echo of your voice in the cramped space, even the faint, slick sounds that perfectly mirror what he imagines to be his own actions. It sounds real, so real that he can't help but wonder if you're actually getting eaten out, or if you're just that good at making sound effects.

Your moans are breathless and shaky, and you can't seem to form a coherent sentence even if you try. The only words that seem to leave your mouth are a series of shaky gasps, whimpers, and muffled moans of "babe", “right there” and “just like that” over and over again.

Behind his eyelids, Gyutaro pictures himself in a random bathroom with you. Down on his knees, his head between your spread legs while you sit pretty on the counter and his mouth devours your pussy.

His breathing is quickening, shallow and uneven as he picks up the pace, his chest rising and falling with every pump of his hand.

“Fuck.” he grunts to himself as his head presses back into his pillow. His cock is slick with precum, his thumb swiping across the tip, a slow, shaky pass that nearly undoes him—but he holds back. He wants to know what happens next. He wants to cum when you do.

“Mmh yes. You make me feel so good, baby.”

“I'm your good girl. I’m yours.”

“Please—”

His body jerks, hips thrusting upward as he imagines your pleading eyes looking down at him.

“Don’t stop—”

Then it hits him. His vision blurs, everything going white as his orgasm hits, his release spilling over his hand and stomach in thick spurts. His jaw clenches, a low, guttural sound tearing from his throat as he rides the aftershocks. His toes curl, his legs twitch, and for a fleeting moment everything else fades away—no worries, no guilt, just pure, blinding ecstasy.

Afterwards, he just lies there breathless, the silence in his room overwhelming, broken only by the faint rush of blood pulsing in his ears and the relentless tick of the clock above his door. Slowly, the fog in his mind clears, and reality settles back in.

He wipes his hand on his boxers, the satisfaction fading much quicker than he’d like, giving way to that stupid post-orgasm clarity which always leaves him feeling gross.

His hand trembles slightly as it reaches for the lighter and cigarettes on the nightstand, fingers grazing over the clutter—empty beer cans, crumpled tissues, the usual mess he never bothers to clean. He pulls one out and flicks the wheel once, twice, three times before the lighter finally ignites. The flame catches the edge of the cigarette and he pulls the smoke deep into his lungs, letting it drift from his lips with a slow, tired exhale.

Gyutaro isn't sure how long he lies there, eyes unfocused as the minutes drag by in silence. Eventually though, something tugs at the edge of his awareness and his gaze starts to shift— slowly, almost reluctantly— back to the laptop that's still open on his desk, the screen dimmed but not dark.

He stares for a moment before letting out another long exhale of smoke.

Fuck it.

To: VelvetVixen

Subject: 250$ tip

hi,

i’’m glad you enjoyed the tip… I’m not sure what to ask for though. I guess I’d be happy if you just acknowledged me in the chat and said my name

take care,

gyutaro

Sent: 00:27 AM

[ghostlynightpanda]

Silent Acts - Part 3

synopsis: After sharing another kiss with Ranpo, the two of you begin navigating your feelings through quiet acts of care—until Ranpo, confident in logic but clueless about emotional nuance, decides that two shared kisses automatically make you a couple.

content/warnings: Ranpo Edogawa x reader, fluff, -2.295 words

Part 1 Part 2

It was a day like every other.

Dazai was eyeing a variety of poisons laid out on his desk, apparently contemplating which one to try in pursuit of his latest suicide attempt—though, of course, single suicide wasn’t his dream. After all, there was no pretty woman to take them with him.

Kenji was negotiating with a spider he’d named Haruto, trying to convince it to vacate the windowsill. Kunikida was already shouting, confiscating the poisons and attempting to shoo the spider away.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, unnoticed unless you were looking, was you.

Still quiet. Still calm. Still the one behind the curtain pulling everything into working order.

But something had changed.

You placed Yosano’s iced coffee beside her monitor—no fanfare, no comment. She didn’t look up, but she nudged it half an inch closer with a small hum of approval.

Kunikida’s updated, color-coded schedule was already in his folder. Atsushi’s usual corner desk had been cleared without him noticing. Even the blinds had been adjusted so the late morning sun wouldn't glare on Junichiro’s monitor.

But when you reached Ranpo’s desk, you didn’t hesitate this time.

He was sprawled as always—legs kicked up, head tilted back, sunglasses slightly askew. He looked asleep. He wasn’t.

You set a fresh pack of strawberry candies next to his elbow, the same brand he liked, plus a second—one he hadn’t tried before.

Ranpo didn’t move.

But you turned just slightly as you walked away, pausing in your step. “The new one’s sour,” you said softly, barely above the surrounding noise. “Figured you’d be curious.”

That was all. No eye contact. No awkward pause. Just a sentence. A single, unnecessary explanation.

Ranpo opened one eye, his head turning lazily toward you as you retreated to your desk.

And then, he smiled. A real one.

No smug twist, no teasing tilt—just a soft, rare curve of his lips that no one else caught.

You didn’t see it.

But somehow, you felt it.

Later, he wandered past your desk for no reason at all, slid a case file into your inbox with two sticky notes attached. One had the mission details.

The other read: Y/N is obviously the best at decoding boring reports. Definitely not because I’m too lazy. 🍓

You read it twice. The second time, your lips twitched.

Not quite a smile.

But close.

And this time, you didn’t hide it. You didn’t have to.

Because Ranpo was already watching you from across the room, one arm lazily draped over the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded behind his glasses. When he caught the flicker of movement on your face, his grin deepened.

He said nothing. Didn’t tease. Didn’t make it a performance like he normally would.

But the next day, a small packet of your favorite tea appeared on your desk, along with a snack you hadn’t realized he even knew you liked.

No note. No dramatic presentation.

Just there. Quietly placed. Like he had noticed something, and this was his reply.

This became the new rhythm between you: quiet exchanges, subtle gestures, small things with weight only the two of you seemed to recognize.

You began sitting closer during meetings—close enough that his coat would occasionally brush your arm when he leaned back too far. He didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

You’d offer him candies from his own stash when he pretended not to notice he was out, and he’d tilt his head, mock-offended.

“I see how it is,” he’d say, lips twitching. “Stealing my candy and my heart.”

You wouldn’t answer. But you didn’t look away either.

Once, during a long day at the Agency, you found him asleep at his desk, glasses askew, a file still half-open under his arm. Without thinking, you gently removed his glasses, folded them, and set them aside. You draped your scarf—clean, soft, scentless—over his shoulders before returning to your own work.

When he woke up, he didn’t mention it.

But he wore that scarf the entire next day.

A few days later, you were home. You had just finished reorganizing your bookshelf by genre and then author and then spine color, the kind of detail work that steadied your thoughts.

You didn’t expect the knock. It wasn’t loud. Just two quick raps, then one softer.

You opened the door without hesitation.

Ranpo stood there, coat slightly askew, glasses perched messily in his hair like he’d pushed them up and forgotten. In his hands, he held a small paper bag, slightly crumpled at the edges.

He looked at you for half a second and smiled like he’d already solved the entire conversation you hadn’t started.

“I’m here to pick you up,” he said simply.

You blinked. “For what?”

“Our date,” he said, like it was obvious. “That’s what couples do, right?”

You stared at him, trying to process the statement. “We’re… dating?”

Ranpo tilted his head. “You kissed me, didn’t you? And I kissed you before that. Feels like a pretty straightforward conclusion.”

“That doesn’t automatically—” you paused, confused. “Is that how it works?”

He shrugged. “Sure, I think so. Now come on. You don’t need to change or anything. You already look nice.”

You looked down at your plain clothes. Then back at him.

“I didn’t know we were going anywhere.”

“That’s okay,” he said, offering you the bag. “I brought snacks. We’ll go somewhere quiet. You’ll like it.”

You didn’t move at first.

But then, slowly, carefully, you took the bag from his hand. Inside was a strawberry bun. And your favorite flavor of tea—still warm, sealed in a thermos.

You looked up. “I’m still figuring this out,” you admitted, voice low. “I don’t know if I’m doing it right.”

Ranpo reached up, gently tapping your forehead with two fingers. “You’re doing better than most,” he said. “Just come with me.”

You stepped out of the doorway, pulling the door shut behind you.

For the first time, you didn’t feel like you needed a reason to follow.

And for the first time, he didn’t walk ahead. 

He walked beside you.

Ranpo didn’t say where he was taking you. He just walked, one hand tucked in his coat pocket, the other swinging freely like he didn’t have a care in the world. The bag of snacks you carried rustled softly in your hands.

You didn’t ask questions. You weren’t sure what to ask.

But you didn’t mind the silence.

He led you through side streets and narrow alleys, past shuttered shops and faintly glowing lamplight, until you reached a narrow, rusted staircase at the side of an old building.

He pointed upward, grinning. “Trust me.”

You hesitated only a second before following him.

The rooftop wasn’t anything special. The concrete was cracked in places, the metal railings a little bent. But the view—wide, soft, and touched by the golden spill of city lights—was almost beautiful.

There was a blanket already laid out on the ground. Probably snuck up here by Ranpo earlier in the day. Next to it, a small lantern flickered weakly, clearly battery-powered and clearly dying. He sat down cross-legged with a dramatic sigh and gestured for you to join him.

“You… prepared this?” you asked, slowly lowering yourself beside him.

Ranpo puffed out his chest. “Of course. I’m a genius, remember? I knew you wouldn’t say no.”

You opened the paper bag again and handed him a red bean bun.

He traded you for a juice box he’d pulled from his coat.

The two of you sat there, sharing snacks and the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward anymore. Not heavy, not expectant—just quiet, steady company.

You glanced sideways after a while. “Why a rooftop?”

Ranpo tilted his head. “Because it’s high enough to feel important, but low enough not to scare you off.”

You frowned slightly. “You think I scare easy?”

“No,” he said. “But I think sometimes… the world does.”

You looked down at your hands. At the way they didn’t tremble anymore. “Maybe.”

He reached over, plucking a crumb from your sleeve, and popped it into his mouth with all the grace of someone who absolutely didn’t care how weird that looked.

You stared.

He winked. “Romantic, right?”

You didn’t answer, but your shoulder bumped into his just slightly.

And you didn’t pull away.

Time passed without either of you marking it. The tea cooled in its thermos. The lantern’s light dimmed to a soft orange hum. The rooftop felt farther from the rest of the world than it probably was.

“I’ve never really… done this,” you said after a while, your voice quieter than before.

“This?” Ranpo echoed, mouth full of the last bun.

“This,” you repeated. “Dates. Talking like this. Letting someone… stay.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just looked at you, unusually patient.

“I keep thinking I’m going to mess it up. That you’ll expect something I don’t know how to give. Or that I’ll say something wrong and you’ll realize I’m not worth the effort.”

Ranpo leaned back on his elbows, looking up at the stars barely visible through the city haze. “You know what the best part about being a genius is?”

You looked at him, waiting.

“I already figured out all the ways you might mess up,” he said, eyes glinting, “and I still showed up anyway.”

You blinked at him. “…That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning now. “That’s what feelings are like. Messy, ridiculous, and mostly irrational. You’re not broken because you don’t get it right the first time. You’re just honest.”

A pause.

“And,” he added, glancing sideways, “we kissed. Twice. So you’re stuck with me now.”

You huffed, barely a sound, but your lips curved.

Not quite a full smile. But real.

Ranpo stretched out beside you, lying down completely now, his coat pillowing the back of his head. He looked up at the sky, then over at you. “You’re doing fine, Y/N.”

And for once, when you heard it…

You believed him.

The next morning, the city felt unusually light beneath your feet.

Maybe it was the cool spring air, or the sunlight that filtered through the clouds just right. Or maybe—though you wouldn’t admit it aloud—it had something to do with the hand intertwined with yours.

Ranpo walked beside you, humming aimlessly, swinging your joined hands gently between you like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t seem to care who saw. You weren’t sure if you did, either.

You hadn’t talked about what it meant. You hadn’t set definitions. But neither of you needed to.

Not when it felt like this.

As you turned the corner toward the Agency building, a familiar figure leaned casually against the wall just outside, a cup of vending machine coffee in one hand and a curious glint in his eye.

Dazai’s gaze landed immediately on your joined hands. His brows arched, the corners of his mouth already twitching upward.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled. “What’s this? A romantic stroll? Are my eyes deceiving me, or is our stoic little Y/N willingly holding hands with someone in public?”

You didn’t stop walking.

“Excuse me,” you said simply, brushing past him with practiced grace and stepping into the building. No hesitation. No need to elaborate.

Small talk still wasn’t your thing.

Ranpo, on the other hand, lingered behind, entirely unfazed.

“Yep,” he said, tugging his hat up with one hand while the other still swung slightly at his side. “That’s what couples do, right?”

Dazai blinked. “Wait, wait—couples? As in, you’re dating now?”

Ranpo looked at him like he’d just asked if the sky was still blue. “Yeah.”

Dazai squinted, confused. “When did that happen? Did you confess? Ask her out?”

Ranpo shrugged. “Nope.”

“…Nope?”

“We kissed,” he said simply. “Twice.”

Dazai stared.

Ranpo continued, completely at ease. “Then I took her on a date yesterday. She didn’t say no. We held hands. I brought snacks. That’s dating.”

Dazai took a slow sip of his coffee. “Ranpo… you can’t just decide you're dating someone because you kissed them twice.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Dazai said, now rubbing his temple with one hand, “there’s usually a conversation. A confession. You ask if they want to date you. There’s mutual acknowledgment.”

“But I already know she does,” Ranpo said, clearly puzzled as to why this was confusing. “I’m not dumb. I kissed her because I like her. She kissed me back. That means she likes me too. What else is there to ask?”

Dazai opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Ranpo tilted his head. “I don’t kiss just anyone, you know.”

“Ranpo…”

He looked thoughtful. “She doesn’t talk much, but I notice things. I don’t need her to spell it out. And she knows how I feel. Why would I need to say it if I already made it clear?”

Dazai looked genuinely exhausted. “You don’t think asking might be a good idea? Just in case?”

Ranpo frowned. “But that’d be redundant. I already solved it.”

For a long moment, Dazai stared at him like he was trying to decide whether to keep arguing or just roll himself into the nearest trash can and give up.

Eventually, he sighed, tossing the empty coffee cup into the nearby bin.

“You’re lucky she’s just as weird as you.”

Ranpo smiled smugly. “Yep.”

With a long groan, Dazai turned and walked away, muttering something about hopeless cases and how deductive geniuses were the worst kind—brilliant at solving mysteries, completely useless at understanding basic human interactions.

Ranpo didn’t follow immediately.

He just looked up at the Agency door where you’d disappeared moments ago—quiet, unreadable.

Then, with a hum, he stepped inside.

Still smiling.

Still certain.

[were--ralph]

Hey i saw you ranting about trans men on a post, and i was just wondering a few things. This is a genuine question, as a stelth trans man, i really cant find anything about a pre op transitioning body attractive. Especially a pre op Chest. Now i do take testosterone, and i think that the parts that i find gross (ex: tits mixed with chest hair) are a perfectly acceptable thing to deal with so i can look the way i want to look. I love my body hair and my muscle growth, i just dont love the obviously not cis parts of me. What do you find attractive about this? I truely cannot for the life of me understand why people find trans men attractive but i would really like to understand.

I think spicy food is disgusting generally. it's like. hot and not fun and to me it adds nothing good to the food experience. Genuinely I don't understand why people enjoy hot foods it makes like. literally no sense.

and yet, people do. it's weird. I've tried on multiple occasions to get into spicy food and it just. suks. every single time it sucks. But everyone else in my family lives by it. And I've asked why for years literally unable to understand it until I realized.

sometimes people just. like things. things I certainly don't like and cannot enjoy whatsoever. But at the same time, this is true for me and not for them. I fucking love coffee to the point I drink it more than water most days, but no one else in my family likes it. BUT other people outside my family enjoy it too.

Life is weird and what I'm getting at is something that took me a lifetime to understand and I still can't wrap my head around it all the time.

People just like things. People love things and hate things. What things mean to one person can mean the world to another and death to the third. There's not always a reason for it, but what you have to do is accept that there are things in life that you just might not like much right now. but as time goes on you'll find value in it the same way your partner will find value in you and all the minuscule things you do and become and like and dislike.

And to build on that point, there are things I hated as a kid that I'm fine with and even love now. Each day changes you more than you'll ever know and with those changes, the acceptance that comes with them may be easier or harder.

So, to answer your question, I don't know! I just love men. Men with tits or pecs, men with vaginas or dicks. maybe both at the same time or neither at all! I just think men are generally attractive no matter the design or what's different about them. and not just men but people who present as masc in general. If you're masc nb there's a chance I'm looking at you through the window of a bar as much as if you were cis-male or trans-male.

I do know for some men, the allure of masculinity displaced with the typically-feminine concept of a vagina intrigues them. Maybe it's the juxtaposition of them together, maybe they just want something unique and new to them. Maybe they just really like vaginas and it doesn't matter who it's attached to, or maybe they just like trans men. Same thing with boobs, some guys just like boobs. Some men have boobs. the overlap doesn't mean net-negative results, it could be double positive.

And I don't expect you to love everything about yourself, god knows I don't love everything about myself, and despite people telling me what's good about me I can still find flaws within it whenever I choose. I think men with chest hair are hot as fuck, but also I've seen some smooth men that are just as if not hotter. I love me a fat man or a man with muscles, but i've seen twinks i'd demolish in one sitting as well. I've seen men with dicks and boobs and scars and and hair pretty much everything under the sun and sometimes I want them to sit on me and forget I'm there and smother me.

What you do have to do though is accept that you have those things, and you are those things, and even though you may not like those things you have to accept that they're a part of you and find value in that. And it's not an easy task at all to love yourself, but you have to try because even if you don't right now, there's a partner who will be waiting for you somewhere. there's a future version of you who loves you as you are. there are friends who love your flaws, pets who don't judge, and there are a lot of things that accept you as you are.

So just say you have boobs and chest hair. even if you don't love it about yourself right now know that there are and will always be people who do, and personally I've said before, but I wish i had boobs and chest hair it's just a perfect look to me. I'm fine with whatever my gender is, i just think its a good look. If I had money for top and bottom surgery I'd get it and never look back. You just have to find the value in yourself we all know is there, and if you can't just know that we know it's there and let that carry you through the day!

[star-girl69]

Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby

Clarisse La Rue x Fem!Demigod!Reader

—-

sypnosis: clarisse comforts you after a nightmare.

a/n: when luke in ep two said “we all get those super bad recurring nightmares” i don’t think he expected for me to screech and kick my feet and make fanfiction out of it. anyways, i hope you all enjoy!!

Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby - Cigarettes After Sex

warnings: nightmares obvi, mentions of death, mentions of violence, kissing, soft clarisse I NEEEEDDDDD YOUUUUU, pretty much cutesy tho, not proofread, tell me if i missed anything!!

—-

Clarisse always called you baby. She called you about every nickname under the sun, but she always came back to that one. That’s exactly how you ended up here in her bed.

You’re both not quite asleep yet, staring at the ceiling, listening to her siblings still shuffle around. Clarisse has the best bunk in the cabin, a single in the corner, and all the power and influence to make sure that no one snitches.

She only does this every once in a while, dragging you to her bed even while you worry about getting caught, calling you baby the entire time. She kisses your worries away and says that no one will care, no one will even notice.

It’s not like you’re doing anything bad, you’re just sleeping.

You recently got a new cabin mate, a very sweet boy who seems very scared and very young, but Gods does he snore extremely loud. You almost wonder if the healers should have a look at him- but he seems to have no clue that he snores.

You’ve dealt with snoring half-siblings for years, but none of them have been this bad before. It’s so loud you swear it sounds like a roaring truck.

And of course, Clarisse noticed. Clarisse noticed how hard it’s been to sleep lately, she noticed how you always seemed to reluctantly split up from her at the end of the day, she noticed the bags under your eyes.

As night continues to fall, Clarisse’s grip on you becoming looser as she slowly drifts off.

“Quiet, right?” she mumbles, kissing your forehead. You listen to her heartbeat. Much more comforting, much more rhythmic, much more her.

“Quiet,” you affirm.

“Good. I-I’ma fall asleep now. Night, baby,” she mutters, and you can feel her heartbeat slow and she’s out like a light.

Clarisse has always had this amazing ability to just knock out whenever and wherever. Even for a five minute power nap, she can lay her head on the table and be up and refreshed. Sometimes you even swear she closes her eyes and falls asleep standing.

You follow her.

It’s so quiet here, except for her breaths brushing against the top of your head, except for her heartbeat like a lullaby. It’s such a cold summer night, but you’re so warm in her arms.

Falling asleep is a lot like falling in love, because it’s all the same action of letting your guard down and letting something in. You fall asleep every night just like you fall in love with Clarisse every day.

—-

It’s cold. It’s so, so cold. There’s the ashes of a fire next to you, and you feel so startlingly alone, like you shouldn’t be alone.

You’re in the woods, but there’s sand on the ground instead of dirt and leaves. You’re in the woods, but there’s leaves on the trees even while you’re teeth chatter.

You stand up, bare feet sinking into the cold sand, your arms wrapping around yourself. You’re supposed to be warm in her bed. All your wearing is a t-shirt. It’s like you’re at the beach at night and you forgot the sun is the reason it’s hot.

There’s a whisper of a sound, like wind blowing, and the fire springs to life.

You gasp and jump back into a tree, the rough bark scratching at your back.

You look around but there’s nothing, no weapons, and the tree branches are too far up to rip one down. There’s no wood burning the fire, just ashes. But now that you look at it, the sand around the fire is covered in some sort of bubbling black liquid.

Only on one side, like it had been blown at it.

There’s some sort of slithering sound, like a snake, and talons dragging against a tree, like a knife.

It’s coming from above you.

You look up and barely have a second to realize a drakon is staring down at you, roaring right in your face, before it looks into your eyes and you can’t move. Can’t breathe.

You can’t do anything except for get swallowed whole.

—-

You jump up, blanket’s falling around you, gasping as you look around the dark room. But it’s not there, it’s not that weird place, it’s just the Ares cabin. It’s just Clarisse’s bed. It’s just Clarisse.

She shoots up right behind you, awake immediately.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you whisper, thanking the Gods none of her siblings have woken up to see you so shaken by a stupid nightmare. “Nothing, sorry.”

She looks out into the darkness like she’ll see something, but she doesn’t, of course, it’s all in your head. You know it’s all in your head, but you can’t help feeling like it’s real.

“It’s not nothing.”

You lay back down, pulling the blanket up to your chin. You stare at the wooden ceiling.

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” you finally mumble.

“Y/N.” She always calls you baby, except for when she really wants to get your attention. “Tell me what happened.”

“Stupid nightmare. It was stupid. It’s all stupid and embarrassing.”

You can feel Clarisse visibly deflate. She settles back down next to you, laying on her side.

“It’s not stupid,” she whispers. “It’s normal. For demigods, at least.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

You press yourself closer to her and she lets you, she wraps her arms around you tight and folds herself around you. You feel shaky and uneasy, like there’s something under the bed, no matter how childish you know it is.

“Tell me what happened and I’ll tell you how I would have fixed it,” she says, her lips brushing your temple. She adds after a moment, “Or kill it. Was it a monster?”

“A drakon,” you whisper. She hums.

“Did it breathe fire? Spit acid? Have those creepy paralyzing eyes?”

“All of it.”

“Ooh,” she mumbles, like it’s a challenge. “I would… blind it with the electricity from my spear. And while it’s distracted, I’d stab it however many times you wanted.”

“I didn’t like that place either,” you whisper. “It was so cold. So dark, and it was like a forest was on the beach, cold sand.”

She doesn’t say anything.

Her hand travels up your body, tracing your face until she draws circles at your temple.

“I can’t protect you from what goes on in here. But I’ll always be out here, baby.”

“I know,” you say, and it’s true. “I know you will be.”

“So you won’t mind me telling you eight more times?”

“No,” you breathe, smiling.

“Good,” she kisses your temple. “I’ll always protect you. I’ll always protect you. I’ll always protect you. I’ll always-”

You shut her up by pressing a kiss to her lips. She smiles against you, slow and sweet, just you and her.

She drags herself up on the pillow, so her head is above yours, her arm under your head. Her other arm around your waist, hand splayed flat against your side.

“Sleep now, baby.”

“Clarisse.”

“I’m right here,” she says, like it’ll solve all the problems in the world. Yeah, the cabin’s burning down, yeah, there’s a tsunami coming towards you- but she’s right here. She’s right here. “Nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby.”

And you believe her.

Clarisse always calls you baby. She whispers that name in your ear until you fall asleep.

—-

y/n, waking up: omg that was so scary

clarisse, fully ready to start attacking the air: WHERE THEY AT BABY WHERE THE DEMONS AT WHERE DO U SEE THEM

we love a gf who supports their slightly schizophrenic gf (me, i am the slightly schizophrenic gf)

—-

me after choosing a drakon (the monster that killed silena in the last olympian) as the monster that kills y/n in the dream 😊😊😊😊😊

—-

taglist:

@lvrue @t-wylia @laughingcheese037 @kroumi @urdeadpoet @colezb @rey26 @harmzilla @elliewilliamsbae @amberfreemansburntface @kyuupidwrites @neverwaakeme-up @shark1008 @liballer @heyimadison @nvirskies @pnsteblnme

[fansids]

Shadow of the King Au Art Dump

Since I very rarely get past the sketching phase any presentable art is rare, but I managed to find some for ya'll

Warning for some old ass art:

1. The Stalwart Generals

I spent an ungodly amount of time figuring out the designs, dynamics, and personalities of all of these monkies so I'll be damned if I don't show them first.

The Generals take care of anything SWK is unable to. They are in charge of FFM when he's not present.

Marshal Ma - While technically all the generals are the same rank, Marshal Ma is considered SWK's unofficial second in command. She's calm in every crisis with a very low bs tolerance and is 75% of the reason why the island doesn't fall to chaos every time SWK leaves. She's highly respected by all the inhabitants and can and will break your spine Bane style if the situation calls for it.

Marshal Liu - Mean bisexual. Marshal Ma's sister and the bane of her existence. On duty she takes her role very seriously. Off duty she likes to keep Ma on her toes with her dumbassery. She's easy going, hates clothes, and loves to fight. She has a slightly concerning amount of knives on her person at all times. She is big gay for General Beng.

General Beng - Meaner lesbian. A siamang and the largest and tallest of the generals. She enjoys dressing up, tea (both kinds), and a good party. She has a very short fuse. While her size and strength alone would generally deter anyone from testing her temper, there are always idiots. She can fight, but she knows her Liu would enjoy it more.

General Ba - The youngest of the generals. While she's not shy, she is very quiet. She does not waste her words. But, when she speaks, the others will stop whatever they're doing to listen. She likes to spend her free time in the libraries. Get her in the right mood and she'll argue with you for hours about the most random subjects.

.

2. Macaque face evolution

Was trying to get a feel for Macaque's face and how it changes throughout the au. Top right is the youngest, bottom right is the oldest. Bro gets all sorts of messed up from the whole died and resurrection thing and very much looks wrong afterwards.

.

3. New fit

Macaque and SWK have the whole cape thing going on, I figured SWK gave Mac one of his own when he was still training under him. I like to think it holds a lot of sentimental value to him since he still wears it in present day but he would rather get his head smashed in again than admit it.

.

4. I'm sure this won't come back to bite anyone later

Eeesh. Imagine spending your whole life training to receive and keep the Sun Wukong's attention only for him to casually give it to some random human boy thousands of years later. I mean, Macaque did betray him and everything, but it's the principle.

.

5. The Tongbi Gibbon Concepts

One of the four world-wrecking/celestial monkies. My brain was very focused on the whole pulling celestial bodies out of the sky part of her abilities that I made her based around that line.

Don't know if this fit is still canon as she and the Horse Monkey had a large role to play in Shadow of the King, and I'm considering if I should take them out

.

Bonus:

I consider the Tongbi gibbon and the Horse Monkey to be older than both Sun Wukong and Macaque in Shadow of the King. The Horse Monkey is the eldest, but the Tongbi's age is nothing to sniff at.

That being said, that does not mean she can't be bought.

Takes place after all the traumatizing shit in SotK

Panel 1

Tongbi: Child, I am an ancient being. I hold the power of gods within me. I was witness to the birth of the Great Sage himself. I have seen nations and empires rise and fall. I have gathered and spent innumerable wealth. Yet you think you can bribe me with 20 yuan?

Panel 2

The host: ...how 'bout 30?

Panel 3

Off-panel (Horse Monkey): TONGBI!!

MK: I thought the nimbus made you airsick

Red Son: Not helping, Noodle Boy

Tongbi: BOTH OF YOU SHUT UP!

[blastzachilles]

— Loving Machine .ᐟ

CHARACTERS: STANFORD!TASHI x MECHANIC FEM!READER WORD COUNT: 1.3k CW: mentions of death

a/n: this was insanely self indulgent oh my god but it can be my birthday fic!!! very based on an insanely ultra specific scenario i have in my head that i will one day do with a future gf so if it does not live up to the mechanic hype i am so sorry but trust there will be more in the future!!!! i love you tashi duncan my beautiful queen happy womens day <3. also fun fact!!! the rings in the middle of the moodboard are the ones i actually made a while back that inspired this whole thing!! i hope you enjoy, and as always, any feedback/comments are greatly appreciated, and thank you to my lovely beta reader!!

— The high-pitched sound of metal screeching rings through Tashi’s ears as she tries to work. It used to be awful, near deaf everytime she left the shop, even if she wore earplugs. 

It’s calming now, tranquil. It means you’re nearby, and it helps redirect her mind. She sits at a desk beside where you stand by a machine–you told her the name of it a while back, she’s since forgotten, something starting with an L, she thinks?–face scrunched in concentration. 

She traces your wrinkles with her pencil, her mind far from whatever essay she’s working on about the beauty of life and rebirth. Without her knee, she’s been trying to get her mind off the possibility of ‘what if?’ And nothing gets her mind off it better than clinging to your side, following you around Stanford’s student shop. She watches you, you in your safety glasses with your hair pulled back, white tank stained with grease stretched tight over your chest, skin covered in a sheen of sweat. Tashi thinks about how she’ll make good use of that image burned into her head later. 

She spends these shop visits with unwritten essays and unanswered questions as she watches your shoulders loosen and tense. As she watches you playing with the levers and wheels and buttons of the machines, listens to you explain whatever it is you’re doing, even if it’s all a bunch of code to her. 

She watches you bore into the threads of a nut, watching the metal go smooth, chips of metal going flying. She thinks back to when you showed the simple steel nut to her, your face lighting up for no apparent reason. The grin that followed was one she knew well, one you made every time you had a wicked idea. It crinkled the area around your eyes and even the coldest winter day would feel like summer if she could see that every day.

She watches you press the nut onto a rod of metal, the muscles of your arms flexing and the sun bouncing off the sheen of sweat as you raise and lower the lever. As you pick up the rod, turn around and wipe the sweat from your forehead. 

You set yourself up again at the machine, and get back to work, Tashi keeping watch as the sharp edges of the nut soften into a circular shape. Not unlike herself with you, she thinks. You have to be the softest person she’s ever met, under all the rough and tough of your work in the shop. She almost feels like you placed her on that machine and turned all her sharp edges yourself, smoothing them out the way the cutter does the nut. And in a way, you did. 

When she snapped her knee, she didn’t think she’d be able to live again. But sometime after, she felt like you picked her up, put her on that machine you’re using, and turned her. Bored into her soul, carved into her, exposing her ugliest parts and making her feel beautiful. Made her something completely new, from the same old Tashi she was before.

Any hint of sharp edges from before becomes completely invisible as the nut grows thinner and thinner, rounder and rounder. You stop, at a certain point, and turn off the machine, taking out the cutting tool. Walking around the shop, leaving it in its place and taking a new cutter, standing at the machine, sliding the cutter on, and getting back to work.

You cut the nut in half next, and press them off the rod. 

Tashi realizes they're starting to look like rings. 

Her brain goes fuzzy as she thinks about the idea that you’re handcrafting rings, rings that presumably–and hopefully–are for the two of you.

As the sun begins to set and dusk follows, you finish machining, turning off the lathe–she finally remembers–and start to clean up, placing the rings atop its shelf. She watches them sit there, as you seem to have no care in the world about the fact you machined these rings from your own hands. She knows what you’ll say. “It wasn’t that hard, the nut was already made and it’s easy to cut.” 

And the smile on your face when you hand one to her and slide it on her finger is one she wants burned into her memory. She’d take ten thousand ACL tears if it meant she could watch you make these rings over and over again, and place it on her finger with such gentleness and devotion. 

But she doesn’t have to.

“This is the simplest possible ring I could have made, but I just wanted to make sure I still knew how. I have plans, big ones, with future rings.”

“Thank you. For everything.”

“Don’t mention it, Tashi. It wasn’t that hard, the nut was already made and it’s easy to cut.” 

“Shut up. Seriously. Thank you.”

Tashi chuckles softly. So predictable, she knew you’d respond like that, and you know she knew too. You laugh too and take the time to oil your machine like it’s your baby, and she stands there, inspecting the ring that now sits on her finger. She thinks back to the nut, how you showed it to her, and understands why you were so happy. 

She thinks about the implications of one nut being carved into two rings, two halves of a whole, just like you are with her. She runs her finger over the small grooves the lathe made, running her fingernails over them. Grooves filled with love, with care, with promise. Sentiments that match the ring on your own hand. She slides it up and down her finger, and it feels like you’re peppering kisses in place of the ring. 

She feels herself tear up, and as she sees your feet turn to face her, she looks up at you, swallowing hard. She sees your small smile, your face softening as you see her swallow hard, and she swallows your air in a kiss as you open your mouth to say something. 

It’s soft and gentle and everything she needs, and just the touching of your lips on hers speaks more than she ever could with words. She soaks in the smell of you, feels the slick sweat on your skin, the slimy grease on your fingers. She feels your own ring resting on her waist, and a sensation that can only be described by burning. 

When she pulls away, something clicks, and she knows exactly how to write her essay. As Tashi looks at your sheepish lopsided smile that makes her want to kiss you again all over, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath, she realizes you rebirthed her into her own person. 

As you both gather your things, leaving the shop hand in hand, your rings brushing against each other’s, Tashi finally understands why you love these machines so much. Why you throw yourself into your projects whenever you have to use them, so much passion in everything you do. She’ll have to get you to teach her about them one day, even if it’s just an excuse to listen to you talk for hours. 

Maybe she will be able to do something other than just hit a ball with a racket.

Tashi Duncan doesn’t remember when she started falling in love with the smell of grease. Sometime after first semester started and she sat beside someone who would, in her opinion, be much better suited for modeling, especially with that face, than in this dingy chemistry lecture–

“What program are you in?” 

“Oh, I’m taking this as an elective.”

“You’re crazy.” 

“You?”

“Mechanical engineering.”

“You’re crazy.” 

–but now she can’t imagine going a day without finding it all over her. Her clothes, her skin, in her hair and in her lungs. It’s become synonymous with you. She swears she’s ingesting and inhaling toxins from it, and no matter how many times she tells you, it just gets a laugh. She laughs too. 

And you two laugh now. You laugh because she complains, but Tashi laughs because she’d spray that oil down her throat and die happy because you were a part of her.

[corynation]

Rumor has it

mark sloan x reader

tags: angst, thats about it tbh, im sorry in advanced

She, she ain't real / She ain't gon' be able to love you like I will

You’ve observed her closely, bouncy walk, the smile thats brighter than the sun when it rises. You’ve memorized the notes of her perfume, studied the way her hair is always perfectly done, never out of place. Noticed how perfect she is, in every way possible. Of course he’d fall for her. Hell you’d began to think you were falling for her too. She was young and beautiful, smart and outgoing, innocent and naive. Everything you weren’t.

Nothing had been the same between you and Mark since Lexie Grey had come to Seattle Grace. At first you loved Lexie, admired her. You had been on the same service as her on multiple occasions, and each time she outshined everyone around her. She was diligent and ambitious, the perfect example of what a surgeon should be.

She is a stranger / You and I have history / Or don't you remember

You and Mark had been dating for a few years now, ever since he first came to Seattle Grace. Your relationship had been near to perfect. There wasn’t a time where the romance between you two felt off, from Sunday night dinner dates where you’d cook together, to finishing late night lab work at the hospital together. He was everything you dreamed of in a man, and you only hoped he felt the same about you.

Lately there had been less late night lab work together. Instead you’d get a call from Mark, him apologizing for the workload and telling you not to wait up for him at home. Sunday night dinners still happened. In fact it was one of the few things you held onto to believe in the fact that Mark was still in love with you. That you were the one he wanted for the rest of his life. You were the girl he’d be doing Sunday night dinners with until his last Sunday on earth.

There was this look to Mark, one that you could never mistake for anything but complete adorn. It wasn’t the Mark Sloan look he was known for, the one where his smile would crook and his eyes would gleam with mischief. This one made a softer man of him. His eyes would soften, his mouth would part just a smidge as his lips curled into the perfect gentle smile. That was the look he gave to you every time he saw you walk into a room. You’d recognize it from anywhere. It became your favorite part about Mark because it was owned by you. You were the only one who got that look from Mark.

That is until the day Lexie was paged into you and Marks surgery. The second the doors burst open and a smiley Lexie appeared you saw the tense of Mark dissolve, his eyes soften and glow, and you just knew that under his mask your favorite gentle smile had appeared.

That day you had to step out of your surgery to puke.

She is half your age / But I'm guessing that's the reason that you stayed

“I don’t know Callie it’s just the way he looks at her. Every time I see him look at her I physically feel ill.”

“You don’t think he’s cheating on you with her do you?”

“No, not at all. I know he wouldn’t do that. But I know he doesn’t know how to stop his feelings either, and I just-“ You groaned as your palms met your forehead. “I can feel him slipping away from me you know? Like he’s there with me physically, but emotionally he’s with her. And I get it, she’s shiny and new and I’m just,”

“Y/n no,” Callie began, her fingers wrapping around your wrist in an attempt to grab your attention.

“I’m just dull to him.” You turned to look at your best friend, her face riddled of pity. It was near the same look she gave families when there was nothing more she could do for a patient. As much as you wished there was a way to somehow extract all feelings Mark had towards Lexie and inject them into someone like Alex, there would never be enough shooting stars or candles to grant that. “I can feel the love fall from him Callie. Like there is this string connecting us and someone is slowly sawing at it with a god damn scalpel.”

“Ironic you say scalpel because-“ Callie started before you shot her a look that shut her right up. “yep too soon sorry.”

“What do I do here Callie? How do I keep going to bed at night with him knowing he’s in love with someone else?” The familiar burn of tears began as you wiped your face not prepared to embrace a whole breakdown this early in the morning. As upset about the situation as you were, you were not going to start crying over it in the middle of the hospital that you work at, let alone the hospital both Mark and Lexie work at.

“You need to talk to him y/n. It’ll ease your mind I promise.”

“Oh says the one who stayed with her husband when she knew he cheated.”

Callie snorted at your remark, starting a break out of laughter between the two of you. It felt nice to laugh during all of this. Made you feel lighter.

“Y/L/N!”

I heard you've been missing me / You've been telling people things you shouldn't be

Your eyes met Dereks. He was practically running to the nurses station where you had been sat with Callie. The two of you shared a glance, hinting to Callie it was best if she went on with her day. She smiled knowingly, patting your shoulder as a farewell and went off past Derek. By his furrow of a brow as Callie passed him you knew she’d given him a warning look, you giggled to yourself. If there was one thing about Callie you appreciated the most, it was her protective nature towards those she loved.

“I need to talk to you.” Derek grabbed your arm, leading you to an on call room. Your quick moment of glee dissolving in an instant.

“What is this about Derek?”

“Mark.”

And suddenly you felt heavy again.

The sound of the door to the on call room closing ran through your ear. Drowning out any other noise. Your throat felt tight and your stomach empty. You definitely had to puke, or faint? Maybe both. Something. You had to do something to get out of this conversation.

“What’s going on between you two?” Derek questioned, his hands placed on his hips.

You were silent at first, your body still in fight or flight mode, though unfortunately for you that happened to also be shut down mode. Not much fighting or flighting.

“I’m sorry?” Was the only thing you’d managed to choke out without spilling your guts to the best friend of the man you’d been worrying about.

Derek sighed rubbing his forehead. “Mark thinks you’re cheating on him.”

“He thinks I am cheating on him.” You scoffed, in total disbelief at the stupidity of that man.

“I told him he was stupid for thinking that.”

“Damn right he is. What else did he say?” At first you were just angry, as you should be, but now you had just been curious. How could you possibly be the one cheating when you were the one trying to keep the relationship stable?

“I really don’t think this is a conversation for us, you should speak with Mark.”

“Derek tell me. Now.”

He bit his lip, trying to decide which choice would be the best. “Fine,” he began, his hand pointing towards you, “but you better talk with Mark after. You two can’t keep ignoring each-other and your issues.”

“Yeah, yeah whatever I will.”

“He said you’ve been distant with him. Short with words, not wanting to be around him. Apparently you’ve left his service before because you had long surgeries with him?”

“Oh I’ve been distant. Thats rich.” Despite your efforts to hold it in, you started giggling over the words that came from Derek. Laughing to the point of tears you made your way over to the door, stopping before opening it. “Thank you for telling me Derek. You might want to keep your phone on silent later, Mark is probably going to bug the hell out of you.” And with that you left to go find the reoccurring talk of the hour.

Like when we creep out and she ain't around / Haven't you heard the rumors / Bless your soul, you got your head in the clouds / You made a fool out of me / And, boy, you're bringing me down

“Mark!” You yelled, finally catching the man you had searched practically the whole hospital for. He stopped almost instantly, turning around and flashing you that look he used to.

“You’ve been ignoring me.” He smiled even saying that, his eyes were still soft and he grasped your shoulders with such care and love.

It almost made you mad how he greeted you. The whole action gave the same feeling it used to before you had ever even began to question his integrity.

“I know I’m sorry.” You smiled back at him, no matter what was going on in your mind you couldn’t help but embrace what love he had for you, what love you had for him. It was warm, familiar. Almost made you question yourself on if you had been going crazy this whole time. “Do you mind if we speak for a minute?”

“Yeah, I’ve got all the time for you.” There it was again. Mark being Mark. So charming and sweet, the man you fell in love with.

You led him to a nearby on call room, Mark instantly sitting against the desk as you shut the door.

“So, what is all this about?” The cheeky grin that spread across his face was almost enough to pull you into him. You knew what he thought, and to be quite honest the feelings you had bubbling in you weren’t beside that thought. But still there was a part of you that still knew you couldn’t give in. If anything happened between you and Mark in this moment you would never talk it out with him. Somehow this whole span of events with him today was almost enough to convince you he was only in love with you. And maybe he was, maybe you truly were just crazy and jealous of this poor girl. Though, the longing looks they’d exchange one another, and the hands that would stay by each other for unnecessarily long amounts of time told a different story.

“I just need to talk to you.” He pulled you into his arms the moment he was able to reach you, a small gasp escaping your lips at the suddenness.

“I think talking can wait a minute.” His words were whispered as he leaned into you, lips meeting yours. It was warm and comforting, your muscles relaxing at almost an instant. You were back into the harmony you knew so well, the one you’d been craving to feel for weeks now. Even if you had tried to pull away there was no chance you wouldn’t initiate a second kiss. The feeling that rushed through you was too addicting to want to back away. That was Marks Sloans specialty.

You both stayed like that for what felt like a life’s eternity in the best way imaginable. Really you wanted to stay like that forever. Safe and loved in his arms, the only one he was focused on.

Mark began to slowly back away, a soft smile stretching across his face. “That, was definitely worth waiting for.”

Simply nodding and smiling as a reply to him, you closed your eyes again, fully taking in the euphoria before the gates around your world would fall.

“Mark,” You began, taking a small step back from his embrace. If you wanted to get any of the conversation you had been planning in your head for days -figuring out every word you’d say, even practicing in the mirror a few times- out to him you were gonna have to ruin the moment. Rip off the bandaid.

“Y/n whats on your mind?” He was so sweet. So patient.

“You’re in love with her.” And there it was. Ripping off the bandaid. And god did the bandaid sting like nothing before. Watching his face fall felt like the world was slowly swallowing you, pulling you into the core. All oxygen leaving your body as you were pulled further, and further.

“Her?” His brows furrowed, eyes scanning your face for something, maybe a sign of who it was, maybe a sign that this was all a joke. To be honest you really couldn’t read his expression. It had been so blank yet so sorrowful, remorse and confusion settling together into one.

“Lexie.” And that was all you had to say before all confusion left him. It was as if you had flipped a light switch within him, Mark finally catching onto what was happening. “I’ve noticed Mark, I’ve noticed everything. You staying at the hospital late nights when she was on call, the lingering hands of you both. I’ve seen the way you look at her. It’s the same you used to look at me. You’ve favored her in surgeries, hell, you’ve favored her in meetings.”

“Y/n..”

“No Mark, listen to me. Maybe you haven’t realized this all yet, maybe you were oblivious to what was going on, but I wasn’t. God I wish I was Mark. I’ve spent so much of my life this past few weeks just thinking about you two, thinking about us. I haven’t stopped thinking about it all since I’ve first noticed you took an interest in her.” Hot tears started to trickle out your eyes, all emotions finally pouring. “I’ve torn myself to shreds over this. Thinking about what I could do to get you to notice me more, or even just less of her. Thinking of what I could do to get you to love me and only me again. Ive thought so low of myself these past weeks I could barely function as a surgeon. I’ve made myself a mess trying to fix yours.”

Mark studied you intently, trying his best to comprehend everything that was going on. He stood up coming back near you. His hands found your cheeks as he held you gentle as ever, cradling you like the most precious piece of gold known to man. “I’m in love with you y/n.”

“I know you are, I know Mark.” You sniffled, one of your hands matching his movement cradling his cheek. You tried to give him the best smile you could forcing every muscle in your face to follow suit, even if it was the last thing you wanted to show. “But you’re in love with her more.”

His face was one you’ve never seen before. Whether it was realization or just heartbreak, it tore you to shreds seeing him like that. But it tore you more to shreds being with him after everything, and you were down to your last bit of stability.

With a kiss to his cheek and a squeeze to the hand that was still on your cheek, you smiled at him once more, slowly backing away from him. “I love you Mark. I always will. But I can’t stand to see you love her too, and I don’t know if I’d ever forgive myself for staying with you any longer knowing you’re in love with someone else. You go get her, I’ll be okay. And you’ll be okay when she says yes to your first date. We’ll both be okay.” There was tears rolling down both of your cheeks. The room so thick of emotions it started to overwhelm you. Suffocate you further into heartache. You placed one last kiss to Marks lips, you both falling into it deeper than ever.

You slowly backed out of the kiss, wanting to let that be your last memory of you two. It was the rainbow after the storm, the calm after the chaos. With that as your farewell to the man you loved more than life itself, you walked out the room, closing the door behind you, feeling as if you had left your whole being in that room. Like a piece of your soul would forever be gone. Stuck inside that room with the piece of him that had broke.

Those two pieces though, would stay together. Pieced in harmony, placed in only the memories of you two. Something more than you could ever ask for.

Hiiiii :DDD im so sorry this is my comeback lol. Anyway i know this isnt the best, i have not written for a year, and this is also my first reader insert pov ive made so be nice pls🙏🏻

hope you enjoyed (or like arent super sad) <33

also my grammar SUCKS and grammer is so hard so do not even think about how many commas i used wrong okay? okay

[guiltysungho]

— boynextdoor if they were gonna do a public confession.

genre : tags. fluff, confessions, f2l

wordcount. 200 - 400 each

a/n. i hope y’all like this i was kicking my feet thinking about these. same vibe as the first headcanons (public) but now its inclusive not 18+ who jumped?? :D

sungho;

ᡣ𐭩ྀི you had been getting used to each other’s company, you only recently met through a friend but the feelings were undeniable.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི one of the reasons he felt so drawn to you was your similar taste in movies, every time he’d bring up a favorite you would gasp in excitement, sharing your love for the movie as well.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི you would often stay up just reminiscing of the first time you watched a comfort movie, the first time made you cry all the emotions in it, shared with your new favorite stranger.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི it was lucky that there was a outdoor movie theater open in the city, it was fate that they were showing one of your shared favorites. he had to take you there, and maybe he would let the words slip.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི watching the movie together, the sun setting in the background, he knew it was the perfect moment.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི bringing your gaze to his with a his hand on your chin, the sound of the movie playing in the background as he echoed the words to you.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི “i want you. i want all of you, forever, you and me, every day.”

ᡣ𐭩ྀི the curve on your lips planted a fire in his heart, watching as you leaned closer, eyes bouncing between yours and the gap in your lips.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི one pull by the collar and his lips were all yours.

riwoo;

ᡣ𐭩ྀི he knows what this feeling is, why your proximity makes his whole body heat up but he just didn’t expect to feel this with you.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི whatever you were feeling wasn’t clear to him, you had been friends for the longest time so any display of affection could mean anything.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི he could be misinterpreting your quiet sweet nothings whispered into his neck whenever you cuddled on the couch, your soft lips grazing his adam’s apple every now and then forcing him to divert his focus.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི maybe you didn’t mean anything when you’d tell him, how much you missed him in the dead of the night when you were away.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི but it was all getting to him and he was really hoping it meant something.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི he knows it could wait, you were at a park under a tree just watching people pass by. you rested your head on his chest with his arm wrapped around you, he couldn’t tell if you were asleep or not but the words couldn’t wait.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི “i like you here in my arms, i find myself loving you more when you’re so close” he whispers to you, you’re quiet so he continues, he could at least get it off his chest.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི “i genuinely do love you, in ways i don’t even understand, more than you know.”

ᡣ𐭩ྀི when you look up, he’s obviously flustered he thought he’d been talking to himself but you heard it all. the smile on your face relieves his tension, and then you let him know your love with a delicate kiss.

jaehyun;

ᡣ𐭩ྀི you probably already knew how jaehyun felt about you, everyone did. he never really tried hiding his feelings even though he didn’t explicitly expose them.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི it was in his touch that you knew, his hands would always find their way in your hair, pushing a couple strands behind your ear when you were busy. using childish tactics just so he could hold your hand occasionally.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི and yet he never told you his true feelings, because your feelings were never truly clear but now he could tell.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི he took you out to a karaoke bar, he knew what he wanted to do and how he wanted to do it. he wanted you to feel special amongst the crowd because that was what you were to him.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི after a few duets and a couple drinks, he goes up on the mini stage picking out a song, glancing up at you before starting.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི “this song is called bad by wave to earth, i’m dedicating it to all the good in my life” he’s addressing the public but he’s only talking to you.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི his voice is perfect with the song, not a single crack just pure melody, beautiful harmonies for you. he bounces off the stage, singing as he makes his way over to you.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི “i’m sorry i made you wait, i love you” he smiles watching you blush at his words spoken loudly in the mic.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི pulling the mic away from his lips, you whisper the words back before placing a kiss on his lips. as soon as you pull away he brings the mic back to his lips, “she loves me y’all”

taesan;

ᡣ𐭩ྀི he hates that he likes you because he doesn’t want to be one of those guys that can’t keep a female friend but the feelings are clearly there.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི he doesn’t show it and doesn’t plan on telling you, he just chooses to enjoy having you as a friend, instead of self sabotaging.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི it felt impossible that you would reciprocate the feelings anyways because you had mentioned liking someone for the longest time so he was sure of his choice.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི you would go out often together to your favorite spots, sharing your interests, new or old just rediscovering yourselves through music or art.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི this time around he brought you to a different vinyl store from the one he usually went to, bigger with more variety. he’d encourage you to pick out a few records to listen to, picking a couple of his own for you to listen to.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི there were no booth just vinyl players with connected headphones, he helped you setting up the music. glancing over your shoulder to him as he grabbed the headphones, placing them on your ears letting the music play for.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི whenever you became a part of his safe space, it made him want you more like you were meant to be here with him.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི he just leaned over on the side watching you enjoy the music you picked out, telling him what you thought of the songs as they played, he couldn’t help the adoring smile on his face.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི “i picked out this song specifically for you, it makes me think of you” he tells you, unaware you can hear him clearly even with the music.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི Something by the Beatles, the lyrics make it clear but his words clear any doubts.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི “you drive me crazy” he scoffs at himself, ruffling his bangs before turning back to a shelf. you take off the headphones and make your way over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder for him to turn to him, his brows flinch at the sight of you so close but then he smiles. you smile back as you pull him in closer towards you arms around his neck, kissing him cautiously.

leehan;

ᡣ𐭩ྀི at first he just thought he just found you pretty, you were undeniably one of the most attractive girls he’d met. physical attraction would make sense but that really wasn’t it.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི not when everything you did brought him joy, just watching you swipe through your phone aimlessly, he found himself smiling like a fool.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི you weren’t even that close but everything he learned about you made him want to know you more, your likes and dislikes, your dreams and aspirations, he wanted to be the one you shared those thoughts with.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི when you agreed to spend the day with him, he made up his mind to be honest about his heart.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི he waited patiently for the right moment at the end of the day after watching a movie together, a nice walk in the cool winter breeze leading you to an ice rink.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི the smile on your face as you got on the ice together made it worth the wait, you were unsteady taking little steps while holding on to the wall.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི you’d apologize for your clumsiness after almost slipping a couple times but he was just glad to see you having fun even after losing your balance you’d laugh it off. looking at the pure bliss on your face, he only wanted it to last.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི “here take my hands” stretching his hands open for you to hold, “just follow my movements, don’t pay attention to anything else. if you fall i’ll catch you trust me.”

ᡣ𐭩ྀི so you did as he said holding onto his hands, slight panic in your eyes as he started gliding backwards allowing you to move along with him, shaky eyes watching your feet “hey look up at me, you’re doing fine”

ᡣ𐭩ྀི “you’re doing so well, i’m impressed” he says looking at you with a dazed smile. it happens in a flash, his eyes widen as his body falls back pulling you along with him.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི the fall isn’t a painful one maybe since you were on him, you pull away from his chest a surprised smile on your face as you check up on him. an embarrassed laugh escapes his lips and then a pause as he realizes how close you were, his eyes are locked on your lips for a second before coming back up to your eyes.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི “i want to kiss you, right here in front of everyone” his hand reaching towards your face, pushing your hair behind your ear, “tell me that’s okay”

ᡣ𐭩ྀི one silent nod from you and his lips are on yours, kissing you so gently the cold ice under your knees adding to the chills across your body.

woonhak;

ᡣ𐭩ྀི woonhak likes you, he likes your laugh, he likes your groans, he likes your burps, he likes your everything. he doesn’t really know why but you’ve been the only thing on his mind ever since he thought of you.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི he’s not sure how you feel but he doesn’t really worry about it, he’s too focused on being completely enamored by you.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི your voice from across the room, discussing a random topic with your friends, makes coming to class worth the while. even if that’s the only thing he listens to.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི he knows you’ll show up to his basketball game, you always do thats where he first met you. your loud cheering, tiny jumps of joy every time his team scored made him curious, it wasn’t unfamiliar to him but you were.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི and there you were once again, a cute wave to him the moment you noticed him on the court. he could get used to that, your little gestures just for him.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི the whole match he barely could keep his eyes off you with every ball bounce came a glance in your direction, whenever he’d score he’d flex his arms up at you with a big smile, proud of his achievement.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི he knew he had to make this shot in the last minutes of the match, less for the team and more for you.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི “hey y/n! this last shot is for you, i’m taking you out after this” he yells as he sprints across the court dribbling the ball, dodging the opposing team before shooting the ball through the hoop with a light jump.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི as the ball passes through the match ends, he turns to you shocked by his own skills, jogging over to you before lifting you up in his arms.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི “did you love that?” he looks up at you up in his arms, you can’t help the smile growing on your lips as you look at him, “i love you” he says under his breath.

[starlightsuffered]

Treasure (p1)

Info - plus sized reader, reader who isn’t conventionally attractive, medieval AU, bullying

I grabbed another dress out of the washing and hung it up on the clothing line. I looked longingly over at my sister Maryam who was talking very closely to the town’s most desired man, Cain.

His sheep pranced around his legs. He leaned on his Shepard's crook. He was always hanging around our house. We’d been friends as children, and he hadn’t liked Maryam because she never wanted to play or get dirty.

Things changed once puberty began. I’d had a crush on Cain for as long as I could remember. Unfortunately, he hadn’t felt the same. This had all been worsened when I hadn’t grown into my looks whatsoever. My ratty ginger hair had gotten more unruly. My strong features did not meet the feminine ideals of what a man wanted in a wife.

Maryam had been the complete opposite. Her auburn hair was smooth and tidy. Her features were sharp and almost feline in their grace. She didn’t have dirt caked under her fingernails from gardening, nor did she have smears of freckles from the sun or calluses on her hands. Her skin was soft and smooth and she was a dainty beauty.

Cain no longer spoke to me. He was doing knights training, and he had to tend to his flock. I saw the way Maryam turned her nose up at the creatures, even the sweet lamb. I knew the only reason that Cain hadn’t proposed was because he knew Maryam wouldn’t say yes while he was still a farmer. It didn’t matter that his family owned the most lucrative farm in the village, and provided livestock and food for the king himself.

I knew Maryam was waiting for him to be knighted so she could say her husband was part of the royal house. It was only a matter of time before I saw my sister get all I wanted. She was so beautiful it didn’t matter how low our station was.

Part of the issue I knew was no matter how hard I worked, no matter the jobs I did or the little I ate, my body stayed curvy. I was not naturally slender like Maryam. I had heavy breasts, wide hips, and rolls that I couldn’t seem to lose. Where Maryam was angular and elegant I was soft and full. I had not a single suitor in all the town.

This was why I did so much manual labour. My parents knew I wouldn’t be able to be traded for a boon in marriage. Instead, they trained me like I was a son and could pay my way in that regard.

“Y/n have you noticed anything odd lately?” Cain called to me. I was shocked he was addressing me. Ever since that one summer afternoon, when I’d leaned in to what I thought was a kiss and saw the disgust on his face, we hadn’t spoken. I’d felt extremely ashamed. I had also been so depressed I’d thrown myself into house work and avoided him at all costs.

“What do you mean?” I asked, pushing sweaty fly away hairs from my eyes.

“Some of my sheep have disappeared, not even a tuft of wool left, they’re just gone. There’s no blood or a trail of any kind. Also, when I’ve gone out in the field, a lot of the rocks have scorch marks.”

“You don’t think….” I trailed off.

“Don’t worry y/n,” tittered Maryam. “Dragons only kidnap beautiful maidens who they can trade for treasure.”

“Shut up,” I snapped.

“God only knows if a dragon could carry you,” Maryam said in a much too loud whisper. I glared at her, feeling tears of anger fill my eyes. Cain made a sympathetic face but said nothing.

I felt anger boil up inside me. It was something I could rarely control or hide. I waited until Maryam turned back to Cain to giggle with him. I lifted the bucket of suds and dirty water. I tossed the lot onto Maryam and her new sky blue dress.

“You bitch!” Maryam screamed. I couldn’t help the wild laugh I let out as I ran into the house. I knew she wouldn’t follow. She would get much more happiness from whining and making herself the victim to Cain.

He and I used to tease Maryam for how reactive she was. Now, I was sure he’d soothe her every little moan. That was just how it worked for pretty people.

I hummed sad songs to myself as I prepared the dinner. Mom and dad would soon be home from managing our meagre fruits stand.

“Well, that boy of yours is going to run us out of business,” My father sighed and let loose the three coins he’d gained that day. My mother didn’t say a word as she came in and all but fell into her chain at the dinner table.

“Well, when Cain finally gets his knight ship I will marry him and then you’ll be hired on in his stead to the most lucrative farm in the village,” Maryam said plainly. She had begun to cut into the chicken I’d prepared and the steamed carrots.

“Thank you for making dinner sweetheart,” my mother said softly. Though she didn’t speak much, she was about the only person who understood I was less than thrilled with my life. She often offered up apologies and thanks but no solutions.

“There may be a dragon about,” I said offhandedly.

“A dragon!” My father asked in completely disbelief. “There hasn’t been one of those in centuries.”

“Well Cain has been seeing burn marks and missing sheep,” I claimed. “You know it might be exciting to meet a dragon.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” my father sputtered. “Business is bad enough as it is without a dragon driving away trade and burning crops.”

“Well thankfully Cain has a remedy for that as well, he wants to go into dragon hunting,” Maryam said casually.

“He used to want to be an explorer,” I commented wistfully. “He always said we’d travel together and find a new continent or something.”

I pushed my food around on my plate sadly. The whole table was quiet. They’d all assumed that Cain would be the one to take the burden of me off their hands. I’d always been seen as undesirable and not nearly as pretty as my sister. When Cain and I had been so close they’d accept the miracle with open arms.

When it was clear he wouldn’t be proposing or even close to interested, they were forced to realise even the best of people knew looks mattered. I wasn’t something people would look past.

That night I laid in bed, and had such a strange dream. The scent of sweet fire wood burning filled the air. All around me was hot, so unbearably hot. I heard a screech but it was like I was paralyzed in my dream. I could not break free and move to see who needed my help. I wanted to move, to get up, to be useful in some way.

“Treasure,” the word was repeated over and over in my mind. It seared itself into my brain.

I jerked awake. Around me was the echoing sounds of droplets plinking into pools. I sat up, feeling completely disoriented. My head was throbbing and my clothing was drenched with sweat.

I did not feel the straw mattress underneath me. Nor did I feel the sheep’s wool pillow Cain had made me as a long ago Solstice gift. Whatever I was on was hard and cold. It admittedly felt good against my burning skin.

My eyes began to adjust when I saw a movement before me. I sucked in a breath of utter fear, nearly losing my bladder as I took in what I was seeing.

A large, scaly beast had stepped into the small bit of light where I was. It was a glittering navy blue, claws, and teeth, and armour that looked impenetrable. I had to still be dreaming. A dragon, a real life dragon was in front of me.

Just as my brain had processed what I was seeing, it changed. The mighty beast shrunk and curled in on itself. The scales turned to soft skin, and the mouth detracted. Its wings slipped into its back, and its neck shortened.

Finally, before me, was a man. He looked about my age. He still had long, razor sharp, black finger nails, but otherwise he looked mostly normal. He was handsome even. He had layers of thick brown curls. His eyes were shards of emerald. He did have a small pattern of dark blue scales under his eyes, but it looked more like the kohl women in the village wore than anything reptilian. He was tall, and slender, and nearly all sharp angles. He could have been mistaken for a prince if I hadn’t just seen what he truly was.

“Dragon,” I breathed.

“Half,” he corrected me.

@pmak2002 @softhecreator @plutoispurplw @sp1deyyf4ngz @seungcheol17daddy @jesschalamet @vvsdreaming @lovelyrocker @therealbeabodoobee

[grayscale-sparks]

A short arkayne fic based on this painting I did

Warnings: Major character death by sickness

okay this is not really arkayne it’s mostly jarthur. I apologize in advance

Arthur knew he couldn’t blame Kayne.

A deal was a deal, after all. And Kayne pulled through in the end. Arthur refused Faroe, of course, but John had gotten a body. Arthur couldn’t deny him of his only wish.

And it had been perfect. Happiness was a luxury and Arthur couldn’t help himself to getting comfortable. John’s body was perfect. Unmarred, strong, beautiful. One hundred percent human.

It wasn’t until two years later that John fell ill, and Arthur realized the catch. A brand new immune system. John had gotten sick plenty of times before, and every time he was stubborn and refused a doctor. Arthur let it go. It was just a cold, he reasoned. Just a little fever here and there.

But then the cough wouldn’t go away. The fever kept coming back. Arthur begged him to see a doctor, but John had always hated them. Arthur hated to argue with John when he was sick, when their now frequent shouting matches made him weak, when he couldn’t even get out of bed.

John was in bed for a week before Arthur turned to prayer. The only harm was shame, and no one had to know. But it wasn’t the Christian god he prayed to.

“Artie!” Kayne was almost surprised.

Arthur opened his eyes and he was in a dreamscape, waist deep in the wine dark sea. “You did this to him.”

“I did what?” Kayne’s eyes glittered.

Arthur clenched his fists, keeping his distance all the same. “You made him sick.”

“I didn’t do anything, sweetheart. I gave him a body, just as promised. What more do you want?”

“Then why is he sick?” Arthur snapped.

Kayne looked at him with eyes that were almost pitying. For the first time ever, he too kept his distance. If Arthur didn’t know any better, he would call this heartbreak. “He asked to be human, my love. I granted his wish.”

“Make him better!” Arthur shouted. “Please!”

“Go back, Arthur.” Kayne turned away. “Just… go.”

Arthur stayed with John until the sickness took him. He was reciting a poem- their poem.

John clasped his hand weakly as tears stained Arthur’s cheeks.

“I- I am the master of my fate.” Arthur choked out. “I am the- the-“

“Captain of my soul.” John finished, barely above a whisper. “I am… human.”

The neighbors had called the police with how loudly Arthur screamed for him to come back. He fought them, begging not to be taken away.

He’s gone, Mr. Lester. Come with me. Just breathe. He’s gone. He’s gone.

It was deceptively nice out- birds singing, the breeze rustling leaves, the sun rising one ribbon at a time. John loved that poem.

Arthur walked with his head bowed to the little graveyard where John was buried. Neither of them had a plot set out for them nor a home to go back to. But this was close to their favorite park under a gorgeous oak tree. There was a bird's nest above, hidden in the branches. Arthur could hear the little chirps.

Arthur didn’t kneel. He didn’t talk. He stood at the foot of the grave and remembered his friend. Sure, there were too many universes to imagine. But how many could they claim to be happy? How many did he get to wake up in John’s arms and take a walk in the park and make lunch and recite poetry and remember the path they took in hushed breaths.

How many universes was he loved? How many universes did he love in return?

It didn’t matter. Fuck meaning. They had been happy, and that was all that mattered. Here. Now.

“Would you kill me if I said sorry?”

Arthur looked up and saw Kayne leaning against the oak tree.

“I’m thinking about it.” Arthur muttered. He was too tired to care. “What do you want? To gloat?”

“To say I’m sorry, Arthur. I gave back your eyes, but I didn’t take your hearing in return.” Kayne scoffed. 

“You can revive him.”

“I can.” Kayne said simply.

Arthur’s vision blurred with tears. “So do it.”

“He’ll just get sick again.”

“Make him better!”

“Don’t shout.” Kayne took a step toward him, but nothing more. “Life is loss.”

“Fuck you.” Arthur snarled. “You- you don’t get to coach me on grief. You know nothing about humanity!”

“I know that humans get sick and they die and they don’t come back.” Kayne said. “So I’m sorry for being realistic for once in my entire existence, but Johnny wanted to be human so he got the whole treatment.”

Arthur looked back at John’s grave. It was simple, a carved stone, grass barely beginning to grow over the dirt. It was so… human.

Arthur knew he couldn’t blame Kayne.

“Looks like it’s just us. Alone once again.” Kayne said, a hint of his old tease slipping into his voice. But too much had happened. Too many wounds. Never once did Arthur know Kayne to be as tired as he was now.

Kayne held out his hand. It was still bloodstained, but this, at least Arthur knew. Arthur took it, and the world around them began to dim.

Kayne smiled. “Somehow, you still surprise me. Let’s go.”